■ift 


A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY 
AROUND    THE    WORLD 


J^OMXy    U      -/^v^oxAi^J^^ 


A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY 
AROUND  THE  WORLD 


A  NARRATIVE  OF 
PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE 


BY 

HARRY    A.   FRANCK 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  MORE  THAN 
ONE  HUNDRED  PHOTOGRAPHS 


Pour  connaitre  les  veritables  moeurs  d'un  pays  il 
faut  descendre  dans  d'autres  etats;  car  celles  des 
riches  sont  presque  partout  les  tnemes. 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO, 

1911 


Copyright,   19 10,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published,  March,  igio 


TO   MY    ALMA   MATER 

THE  UNIVERSITY   OF   MICHIGAN 

WITHOUT  WHOSE   TRAINING 

THIS  UNDERTAKING   HAD   BEEN   IMPOSSIBLE 


225964 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I,     Preliminary  Rambles 3 

II.     On  the  Road  in  France  and  Switzerland 26 

III.  Tramping  in  Italy 43 

IV.  The  Borders  of  the  Mediterranean 64 

V.    A  "  Beachcomber  "  in  Marseilles 83 

VI.    The   Arab   World 103 

VII.    The  Cities  of  Old 131 

VIII.     The  Wilds  of  Palestine 167 

IX.     The    Loafer's    Paradise 188 

X.     The  Land  of  the  Nile 215 

XI.     Stealing  a  March  on  the  Far  East 237 

XII.     The  Realms  of  Gautama 251 

XIII.  Sawdust  and  Tinsel  in  the  Orient 272 

XIV.  Three  Hoboes   in   India 289 

XV.    The  Ways  of  the  Hindu 309 

XVI.    The  Heart  of  India 327 

XVII.    Beyond   the    Ganges 354 

XVIII.    The  Land  of  Pagodas 378 

XIX.     On  Foot  Across  the  Malay  Peninsula 410 

XX.    The  Jungles  of  Siam 444 

XXI.    Wanderings  in  Japan 462 

XXII.     Homeward  Bound 483 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Harry  A.  Franck Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

A  boss  cattle-man  of  the  Walkerville  barns  who  has  crossed  the  Atlantic 
scores  of  times 6 

Upon  arrival  in  Montreal  I  put  up  at  the  "Stock  Yards  Hotel"  and  get  a 

preliminary  hair-cut  in  anticipation 6 

Women  laborers  in  the  linen-mills  of  Belfast,  Ireland ii 

S.  S.  Sardinian.    "Lamps  does  a  bit  of  painting  above  the  temporary  cattle- 
pens"        II 

A  baker's  cart  of  Holland  on  the  morning  round i8 

A  public  laundry  on  the  Rhine  at  Mainz,  Germany i8 

Canal-boats  laden  with  lumber  from  Nievre  entering  Paris 31 

"They  are  excellently  built,  the  Routes  Nationales  of  France" 31 

A  typical  French  roadster  who  has  tramped  the  highways  of  Europe  for 

thirty  years 34 

The  two  French  miners  with  whom  I  tramped  in  France.    Notice  shoe-laces 
carried  for  sale 34 

A  Venetian  pauper  on  the  Rialto  bridge 55 

My  gondolier  on  the  Grand  Canal 55 

Going  for  the  water.    A  village  north  of  Rome 58 

Italy  is  one  of  the  most  cruelly  priest-ridden  countries  on  the  globe      ...     58 

Selling  the  famous  long-horned  cattle  of  Siena  outside  the  walls 66 

Italian  peasants  returning  from  market-day  in  the  communal  village    ...    66 

A  factory  of  red  roof-tiles  near  Naples.     The  girl  works  from  daylight  to 

dark  for  sixteen  cents 76 

Italian  peasants  returning  from  the  vineyards  to  the  village 76 

My  entrance  into  Paris  in  the  corduroy  garb  and  with  the  usual  amount  of 

baggage  of  the  first  months  of  the  trip 94 

"Tony  of  the  Belt" 94 

As  I  appeared  during  my  tramp  in  Asia  Minor.    A  picture  taken  by  Abdul 

Razac  Bundak,  bumboat-man  of  Beirut 114 

The  lonely,  Bedouin-infected  road  over  the  Lebanon.     "Few  corners  of  the 

globe  offer  more  utter  solitude  than  Syria  and  Palestine" 127 

The  Palestine  beast  of  burden  loaded  with  stone 127 

Damascus.  "The  street  called  Straight— which  is  n't" I33 

A  wood-turner  of  Damascus.     He  watches  the  ever-passing  throng,  turning 

the  stick  with  a  bow  and  a  loose  string,  and  holding  the  chisel  with  his  toes  133 

ix 


X  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING    PAGE 

The  most  thickly  settled  portion  of  Damascus  is  the  graveyard.  A  picture 
taken  at  risk  of  mobbing 140 

Women  of  Bethlehem  going  to  the  Church  of  the  Nativity 140 

Tyre  is  now  a  miserable  village  connected  with  the  mainland  by  a  wind- 
blown neck  of  sand ^49 

Agriculture  in  Palestine.    There  is  not  an  ounce  of  iron  about  the  plow    .    .  149 

On  the  road  between  Haifa  and  Nazareth  I  meet  a  road-repair  gang,  all 
women  but  the  boss 156 

On  the  summit  of  Jebel  es  Sihk,  back  of  Nazareth.  From  left  to  right: 
Shukry  Nasr,  teacher;  Elias  Awad,  cook;  and  Nehme  Siman,  teacher; 
my  hosts  in  Nazareth 156 

The  shopkeeper  and  the  traveling  salesman  with  whom  I  spent  two  nights 
and  a  day  on  the  lonely  road  to  Jerusalem.  Arabs  are  very  sensitive  to 
cold,  except  on  their  feet  and  ankles 176 

A  high  official  of  Mohammedanism.  It  being  against  the  teachings  of  the 
Koran  to  have  one's  picture  taken,  master  and  servant  turn  away  their 

faces        176 

The  view  of  Jerusalem  from  my  window  in  the  Jewish  hotel 183 

Sellers  of  oranges  and  bread  in  Jerusalem.    Notice  Standard  Oil  can    .    .    .183 

The  Palestine  beast  of  burden  carrying  an  iron  beam  to  a  building  in  con- 
struction  186 

Jews  of  Jerusalem  in  typical  costume    . 186 

A  winged  dahabiyeh  of  the  Nile 190 

Sais  or  carriage  runners  of  Cairo,  clearing  the  streets  for  their  master      .    .  190 

An  Arab  gardener  on  the  estate  of  the  American  consul  of  Cairo,  for  whom 

I  worked  two  weeks < 197 

Otto  Pia,  the  German  beggar-letter  writer  of  Cairo 197 

An  Arab  cafe  in  Old  Cairo 200 

An  abandoned  mosque  outside  the  walls  of  Cairo,  and  a  caravan  off  for 
Suez  across  the  desert .  204 

Spinners  in  the  sun  outside  the  walls  of  Cairo 211 

Guests  of  the  Asile  Rudolph,   Cairo.     Frangois,   champion  beggar,   in  the 

center,  in  the  cape  he  wore  as  part  of  his  "system" 211 

An  Arab  market-day  at  the  village  of  Gizeh 215 

A  woman  of  Alexandria,  Egypt,  carrying  two  bushels  of  oranges.     Even 

barefooted  market-women  wear  the  veil  required  by  the  Koran    ....  216 

On  the  top  of  the  largest  pyramid.     From  the  ground  it  looks  as  sharply 

pointed  as  the  others 216 

"Along  the  way  shadoofs  were  ceaselessly  dipping  up  the  water  that  gives 

life  to  the  fields  of  Egypt" 218 

The  "Tombs  of  the  Kings"  from  the  top  of  the  Libyan  range,  to  which  I 

climbed  above  the  plain  of  Thebes 218 

A  water-carrier  of  Luxor.    A  goatskin  full  costs  one  cent    ' 222 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

FACING   PAGE 

The  main  entrance  to  the  ruins  of  Karnak 226 

The  Egyptian  fellah  dwells  in  a  hut  of  reeds  and  mud 231 

Arab  passengers  on  the  Nile  steamer.  Except  for  their  prayers,  they  scarcely 
move  once  a  day 234 

The  Greek  patriarch  whose  secretary  I  became— temporarily 234 

S.  S.  Worcestershire  of  the  Bibby  Line,  on  which  I  stowed  away  after  tak- 
ing this  picture 239 

Oriental  travelers  at  Port  Said 239 

An  outrigger  canoe  and  an  outdoor  laundry  in  Colombo,  Ceylon 252 

Road-repairers  of  Ceylon.    Highway  between  Colombo  and  Kandy    ....  252 

Singhalese  ladies  wear  only  a  skirt  and  a  short  waist,  between  which  several 
inches  of  brown  skin  are  visible    .-.,....         263 

A  Singhalese  woman  rarely  misses  an  opportunity  to  give  her  children  a  bath  263 

The  woman  who  sold  me  the  bananas 264 

The  thatch  roof  at  the  roadside,  under  which  I  slept  on  the  second  night  of 
my  tramp  to  Kandy 264 

Singhalese  infants  are  very  sturdy  during  the  first  years 266 

The  yogi  who  ate  twenty-eight  of  the  bananas  at  a  sitting 266 

Central  Ceylon.    Making  roof-tiles.    The  sun  is  the  only  kiln 268 

The  priests  of  the  "Temple  of  the  Tooth"  in  Kandy,  who  were  my  guides 

during  my  stay  in  the  city 268 

The  rickshaw  men  of  Colombo 274 

American  wanderers  who  slept  in  the  Gordon  Gardens  of  Colombo.  Left  to 
right:  Arnold,  ex-New  York  ward  heeler;  myself;  "Dick  Haywood"; 
an  English  lad;  and  Marten  of  Tacoma,  Washington 274 

The  trick  elephant  of  Fitzgerald's  circus  and  a  high-caste  Singhalese  with 

circle-comb       287 

John  Askins,  M.A.,  who  had  been  "on  the  road"  in  the  Orient  twenty  years  287 
A  Hindu  of  Madras  with  caste-mark,  of  cow-dung  and  coloring-matter,  on 

his  forehead 295 

Hindus  of  all  castes  now  travel  by  train 298 

"Ha3^wood"  snaps  me  as  I  am  getting  a  shave  in  Trichinopoly    .....  298 

The  Hindu  affects  many  strange  coiffures.     Natives  of  Madras 305 

A  Hindu  basket-weaver  of  Madras 30S 

The  great  road  of  Puri,  over  which  the  massive  Juggernaut  car  is  drawn 

once'  a  year 320 

The  main  entrance  to  Juggernaut's  temple  in  Puri.  I  was  mobbed  for  step- 
ping on  the  flagging  around  the  column 322 

"Suttee"  having  been  forbidden  by  their  English  rulers,  Hindu  widows  must 
now  shave  their  heads,  dress  in  white,  and  gain  their  livelihood  as  best 

they  can 324 

A  seller  of  the  wood  with  which  the  bodies  of  Hindus  are  burned  on  the 

banks  of  the  Ganges.    Very  despised  caste 324 


xli  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING    PAGE 

Bankipur's  chief  object  of  interest  is  a  vast  granary  built  in  the  time  of 
the  American  Revolution  to  keep  grain  for  times  of  famine.  From  its 
top  the  traveler  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  the  Ganges 338 

Women  of  Delhi  near  gate  forced  during  the  Sepoy  rebellion.    One  carries 

water  in  a  Standard  Oil  can,  another  a  basket  of  dung-cakes     ....  338 

One  of  the  many  flights  of  steps  leading  down  to  the  bathing-ghats  and 
funeral  pyres  of  Benares 341 

The  Taj  Mahal,  Agra,  India     . 348 

A  market-day  in  Delhi,  India.     Many  castes  of  Hindus  and  Mohammedans 

are   represented        35i 

The  Hindu  street-sprinkler  does  not  lay  much  dust 351 

A  lady  of  quality  of  Delhi  out  for  a  drive 352 

Hindu  women  drinking  cocoanut-milk       352 

Bungalows  along  the  way  in  rural  Burma 380 

Women  of  the  Malay  Peninsula  wear  nothing  above  the  waist-line  and  not 
much  below  it 380 

A  Laos  carrier  crossing  the  stream  that  separates  Burma  from  Siam    .    .    .  433 

The  sort  of  jungle  through  which  we  cut  our  way  for  three  weeks.     Gerald 

James,  my  Australian  companion,  in  the  foreground 440 

"An  elephant,  with  a  mahout  dozing  on  his  head,  was  advancing  toward  us"  448 

Myself  after  four  days  in  the  jungle,  and  the  Siamese  soldiers  with  whom 
we  fell  in  now  and  then  between  Myawadi  and  Rehang.  I  had  sold  my 
helmet 448 

Bangkok  is  a  city  of  many  canals        450 

A  swimming-school  of  Japan,  teachers  on  the  bank,  novices  near  the  shore, 
and  advanced  students,  in  white  head-dress,  well  out  in  the  pool    .    .    .  464 

Women  do  most  of  the  work  in  the  rice-fields  of  Japan 464 

Horses  are  rare  in  Japan.    Men  and  baggage  are  drawn  by  coolies    ....  467 

Japanese  children  playing  in  the  streets  of  Kioto 467 

A  Japanese  lady 472 

Japanese  canal-boats  and  coolies  of  Kioto 478 

The  castle  of  Nagoya,  in  which  many  Russian  prisoners  were  kept    ....  480 
Laying  out  fish  to  dry  along  the  river  in  Tokio.     Japan  lives  principally  on 

fish  and  rice 480 

An  employee  of  the  Tokio- Yokohama  interurban,  and  some  street  urchins    .  483 

Fishermen  along  the  bay  on  my  tramp  from  Tokio  to  Yokohama    ....  483 

The  Russian  consulate  of  Yokohama,  in  which  we  "beach-combers"  slept    .  488 

Japanese  types  in  a  temple  inclosure 488 

A  Yokohama  street  decorated  for  the  Taft  party.  The  display  is  entirely 
private  and  shows  the  general  good  will  of  the  Japanese  toward  the 
United  States       494 


A  FOREWORD  OF  EXPLANATION 

Some  years  ago,  while  still  an  undergraduate,  I  chanced  to  be  pres- 
ent at  an  informal  gathering  in  which  the  conversation  turned  to 
confessions  of  respective  aspirations. 

"  If  only  I  had  a  few  thousands,"  sighed  a  senior,  "  I  'd  make  a 
trip  around  the  world." 

"  Modest  ambition !  "  retorted  a  junior,  "  But  you  'd  better  file  it 
away  for  future  reference,  till  you  have  made  the  money." 

"  With  all  due  respect  to  bank  accounts,"  I  observed,  "  I  believe  a 
man  with  a  bit  of  energy  and  good  health  could  start  without  money 
and  make  a  journey  around  the  globe." 

Laughter  assailed  the  suggestion;  yet  as  time  rolled  on  I  found 
myself  often  musing  over  that  hastily  conceived  notion.  Travel  for 
pleasure  has  ever  been  considered  a  special  privilege  of  the  wealthy. 
That  a  man  without  ample  funds  should  turn  tourist  seems  to  his 
fellow-beings  an  action  little  less  reprehensible  than  an  attempt  to 
finance  a  corporation  on  worthless  paper.  He  who  would  see  the 
world,  and  has  not  been  provided  the  means  thereto  by  a  considerate 
ancestor,  should  sit  close  at  home  until  his  life  work  is  done,  his 
fortune  made.  Then  let  him  travel;  when  his  eyes  have  grown 
too  dim  to  catch  the  beauty  of  a  distant  landscape,  when  struggle 
and  experience  have  rendered  him  blase  and  unimpressionable. 

A  spirit  of  rebellion  against  this  traditional  notion  suggested  a 
problem  worthy  of  investigation.  What  would  befall  the  man  who 
set  out  to  girdle  the  globe  as  the  farmer's  boy  sets  out  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  the  neighboring  city;  on  the  alert  for  every  opportunity, 
yet  scornful  of  the  fact  that  every  foot  of  the  way  has  not  been 
paved  before  him?  There  were,  of  course,  other  motives  than  mere 
curiosity  to  urge  me  to  undertake  such  an  expedition.  As  a  voca- 
tion I  had  chosen  the  teaching  of  modern  languages;  foreign  travel 
promised  to  add  to  my  professional  preparation.  Were  I  permitted 
an  avocation  it  would  be  the  study  of  social  conditions;  what  surer 

xiii 


xiv      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

way  of  gaining  vital  knowledge  of  modern  society  than  to  live  and 
work  among  the  world's  workmen  in  every  clime?  In  the  final  reck- 
oning, too,  an  inherent  Wanderlust,  to  which,  as  an  American,  I 
lay  no  claim  as  a  unique  characteristic,  was  certainly  not  without  its 
influence. 

It  was  not  until  a  year  after  my  graduation  that  opportunity  and 
my  plans  were  ripe.  I  resolved  to  take  a  "  year  off,*'  to  wander 
through  as  much  of  the  world  as  possible,  and  to  return  to  my  desk 
in  the  autumn,  fifteen  months  later.  As  to  my  equipment  for  such 
a  venture:  I  spoke  French  and  German  readily,  Spanish  and  Italian 
with  some  fluency ;  I  had  "  worked  my  way  "  on  shorter  journeys, 
had  earned  wages  at  a  dozen  varieties  of  manual  labor  in  my  own 
country,  and  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  once  as  a  cattle  man  and  once 
before  the  mast.  It  was  my  original  intention  to  attempt  the  jour- 
ney without  money,  without  weapons,  and  without  carrying  baggage 
or  supplies;  to  depend  both  for  protection  and  the  necessities  of  life 
on  personal  endeavor  and  the  native  resources  of  each  locality.  That 
plan  I  altered  in  one  particular.  I  decided  to  carry  a  kodak;  and 
to  obviate  the  necessity  of  earning  en  route  what  I  might  choose  to 
squander  in  photography,  I  set  out  with  a  sum  that  seemed  sufficient  to 
cover  that  extraneous  expense;  to  be  exact:  with  one  hundred  and 
four  dollars.  As  was  to  be  expected,  I  spent  this  reserve  fund  early, 
in  those  countries  of  northern  Europe  in  which  I  had  not  planned 
an  extensive  stay.  But  the  conditions  of  the  self-imposed  test  were 
not  thereby  materially  altered;  for  before  the  journey  ended  I  had 
spent  in  photography,  from  my  earnings,  more  than  the  original 
amount, —  to  be  exact  again:  one  hundred  and  thirteen  dollars. 

The  chief  object  of  investigation  being  the  masses,  I  made  no 
attempt  during  the  journey  to  rise  above  the  estate  of  the  common 
laborer.  My  plan  included  no  fixed  itinerary.  The  details  of  route 
I  left  to  chance  and  the  exigencies  of  circumstances.  Yet  this  ran- 
dom wandering  brought  me  to  as  many  famous  spots  as  any  victim 
of  a  "personally  conducted  tour"  could  demand;  and  in  addition, 
to  many  corners  unknown  to  the  regular  tourist.  These  latter  it  is 
that  I  have  accentuated,  passing  lightly  over  well-known  scenes.  It 
is  easy  and,  alas,  too  often  customary  for  travelers  to  weave  fanciful 
tales.     But  a  story  of  personal  observation  of  social  conditions  can 


A  FOREWORD  OF  EXPLANATION  xv 

be  of  value  only  in  so  far  as  it  adheres  to  the  truth  of  actual  ex- 
perience. I  have,  therefore,  told  the  facts  in  every  particular,  denying 
myself  the  privilege  even  of  altering  unimportant  details  to  render 
more  dramatic  many  a  somewhat  prosaic  incident.  The  names  of 
places,  institutions,  and  persons  appearing  in  the  text  are  in  every 
case  authentic;  the  illustrations  are  chosen  entirely  from  the  photo- 
graphs I  took  during  the  journey. 

The  question  that  aroused  my  curiosity  has  been  answered.  A  man 
can  girdle  the  globe  without  money,  weapons,  or  baggage.  It  is 
in  the  hope  that  the  experiences  and  observations  of  such  a  journey 
may  be  of  interest  to  fireside  travelers  that  I  offer  the  following 
account  of  my  Wander jahr. 


The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  Harper's  Weekly,  Outing 
and  The  Century  Magazine  in  permitting  him  to  republish  from  their  pages 
certain  chapters  of  this  book. 


A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 


4 


U 


A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND 
THE  WORLD 


CHAPTER  I 

PREUMINARY   RAMBLES 

OX  the  eighteenth  day  of  June,  1904,  I  boarded  the  ferry  that 
plies  between  Detroit  and  the  Canadian  shore,  and,  coasting 
the  sloping  beach  of  verdant  Belle  Isle,  swung^  off  on  the 
first  stage  of  my  journey  around  the  globe.  At  the  landing  stage  a 
custom  officer  glanced  through  my  bag,  stared  perplexedly  from  the 
kodak  to  my  laborer's  garb,  and  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  passed 
me  on  into  the  streets  of  the  Canadian  \nllage. 

A  two-mile  tramp  brought  me  to  the  Walkerville  cattle-bams,  where 
thousands  of  gaunt  calves  are  rounded  up  each  autumn  to  come  forth 
in  the  summer  plump  bulls  and  steers,  ready  for  the  markets  of  old 
England.  From  the  long  rows  of  low,  brick  buildings  sounded  now 
and  then  a  deep  bellow  or  the  song  or  whistle  of  a  stock  feeder  at 
his  labor.  I  had  arranged  for  my  passage  some  days  before,  and,  drc^ 
ping  my  bag  at  the  office,  I  joined  the  crew  in  the  jranL 

Months  of  well-fed  inactivity  had  not  tamed  the  spirits  of  the 
sleek  animals  that  were  set  loose  and  driven  one  by  one  out  of  the 
various  stables.  The  racing,  bellowing  cattle,  urged  slowly  up  the 
shute  into  the  ^*aiting  cars  by  blaspheming  stockmen,  waving  lance- 
like  poles  above  their  heads,  gave  to  the  scene  the  aspect  of  a  riotous 
corrida  de  toros.  The  sun  had  set  and  darkness  had  fallen  in  the 
alle}*Avays  between  the  endless  stables  before  the  last  boll  was  tied  and 
the  last  car  docH*  locked.  The  shunting  o^ne  gacve  a  warning  whistle. 
We,  who  were  to  attend  the  stock  en  route  raced  to  the  office  for  our  ^ 
bundles,  and,  tossnig  them  on  top  of  the  freight  cars,  dimbed  after 
them. 

There  were  no  formal  leave-takings  between  the  little  stock-yard 
community  on  the  shute  platform  and  those  who  were  "crossin*  the 

3 


4    ,vA;'V;At5ABaK'D:j0m<NEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 
pond  wi'  the  bullocks."     The  cars  began  to  move  amid  such  words 

thetrb^'v-L^r'  ''-'  '-'"  -'''''''  -''  °-  -"'"^  ^^ 
"  So  long,  Jim,  keep  sober." 

;| Don't  fergit  me  that  tin  o'  Wills'  Smokin',  Bob" 
Give  me  best  to  Molly  down  on  the  Broomielaw    Tim"  with  an 

Jim  and  Bob  were  "boss  cattle  men,"  each  of  whom    thou^^h  still 

Huh!     'Nother  bloody  bunch  o'  cattle  stiffs." 
tne  cars  at  every  halt  to      punch  'em  up"  brought  us  to  Montreal 

room  to  garret  by  the  odor  of  cattle  Th„  /  ^  "^^''^^.  '"^"^  ^ar- 
been  uncertain,  but,  not  lonj  afte  our  •  T  ""l  ^^^*'"^t'°"  had 
out  that  we  were  to  sail  for  r  I   '  '"f°™a'i°"  leaked 

later.  ^'^'^°^  °"  *«  ^«rA-«-a«  two  days 

On  that  second  evening,  I  reported  at  a  wharf  peopled  by  a  half 

.e"s:r  arHrs:;riit  lisr-'^'  ^''^T^^'  --  -"^- 

Twelve  hundred  cattle,  Xt:d      om  seirclL  w'   ''"• 

..ns.  but  the  throng  ^s  Zdf  ;p"cLTofTh rwhTlf piSt 
Montreal  agency  $2.^  for  the  privilege  of  shipping  ^       ' 

sumroUiTrsranr::rtLTaro7c:;r  i^'-^T '-'"  - 

gpe,  to  be  greeted  by  ^^l^Z^  ^^t;:: ^^ ^ 
"  What 's  yer  name  ?  " 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  5 

"  H.  Franck." 

"  Ever  been  over  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  on  the  Manchester  Importer." 

The  name  was  recorded  and  I  touched  the  pen  to  make  binding 
the  contract  I  had  signed  by  proxy. 

'*  All  right !     Fi'  bob  fer  the  run.     Next !  " 

Our  boss  was  entitled  to  eight  men,  four  of  whom  he  had  already 
chosen.  The  last  of  these  had  barely  given  his  name,  when  the 
"  agency  stiffs  "  swept  aside  the  policeman  who  had  held  them  back, 
and  surged  screaming  into  the  office.  We  left  them  to  fight  for 
the  coveted  places  and,  stepping  out  into  the  night,  groped  our  way 
on  board  the  Sardinian.  Even  while  we  wandered  among  the  empty 
cattle  pens,  built  on  her  four  decks,  we  clung  jealously  to  our  bundles, 
for  the  skill  of  the  Montreal  wharf-rat  in  *'  lifting  bags  "  is  prover- 
bial among  seafaring  men. 

Towards  midnight  several  loads  of  baled  straw  were  sent  on  board, 
and  those  of  us  who  had  not  succeeded  in  hiding  "  turned  to  "  to 
bed  down  the  pens.  Like  many  another  transatlantic  liner,  the  Sar- 
dinian, homeward  bound,  carried  cattle  in  the  spaces  allotted  to 
third-class  passengers  on  the  outward  journey.  It  was  not,  however, 
for  this  reason,  as  one  of  my  new  acquaintances  was  convinced,  that 
this  section  of  the  ship  was  known  as  the  steerage. 

The  bedding  completed,  we  threw  ourselves  down  in  the  stalls 
and  fell  asleep.  Long  before  the  day  broke,  the  entire  ship's  com- 
pany, from  the  first  mate  to  the  sleepiest  "  stiff,"  was  rudely  awakened 
by  a  stampede  of  excited  cattle  and  the  blatant  curses  of  their  drivers. 
The  stock-yard  tenders  had  tied  up  alongside.  In  three  hours  our 
cargo  was  complete;  the  panting  animals  were  securely  tied  in  their 
stanchions ;  the  winch  had  yanked  up  on  deck  the  three  or  four  bulls 
that,  having  been  killed  in  the  rush,  were  to  be  dumped  in  the  outer 
bay ;  and  we  were  off  down  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  crew  fell  to  coil- 
ing up  the  shore-lines  and  joined  the  cattle  men  in  a  rousing  chorus : — 

"  We  're  homeward  bound,  boys,  for  Glasgow  town, 
Good-by,  fare  thee  well!  good-by,  fare  thee  well! 
We  '11  soon  tread  the  Broomielaw  now,  my  belle, 
Good-by,  fare  thee  well ;  good-by." 

Our  passage  varied  little  from  the  ordinary  trip  of  a  cattle  boat. 
A  few  quarrels  and  an  occasional  free-for-all  melee  were  to  be  ex- 
pected,   for    the    "  stiffs'    fo'c'stle "    housed    a    heterogeneous    com- 


A 


6        A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

pany.  Some  of  our  mates  were  skilled  workmen  of  industry  and  good 
habits,  bound  on  a  visit  to  their  old  homes.  Contrasted  with  them 
were  several  incorrigible  wharf-rats,  bred  on  the  docks  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  who  had  somehow  contrived  to  cross  the  Atlantic  to  what 
had  been  pictured  to  them  as  a  land  "  where  a  bloke  c'n  live  like  a 
gent  at  'ome  widout  wavin'  'is  bleedin'  flipper."  The  western  hemi- 
sphere had  proved  no  such  ideal  loafing-place.  Bound  back '  now 
to  their  accustomed  haunts,  the  disillusioned  rowdies  spent  their 
energies  in  heaping  curses  on  America  and  those  who  had  painted 
it  in  such  glowing  colors.     They  were  not  pleasant  messmates. 

The  work  on  the  Sardinian  was,  as  we  had  anticipated,  hard,  the 
food  unfit  to  eat,  and  the  forecastle  unfit  to  live  in.  But  there 
were  no  "  first  trippers  "  among  us  and  all  had  shipped  with  some 
knowledge  of  the  treatment  meted  out  to  "  cattle  stiffs." 

On  the  tenth  day  out,  the  second  of  July,  we  came  on  deck  to  find, 
a  few  miles  off  to  starboard,  the  sloping  coast  of  Ireland,  patches  of 
growing  and  ripening  grain  giving  the  ^ island  the  appearance  of  a 
huge,  tilted  checkerboard.  Before  night  fell,  we  had  left  behind 
Paddy's  Mile-stone  and  the  Mull  o'  Kintyre,  and  it  was  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Clyde  that  we  completed  our  last  feeding. 

A  mighty  uproar  awakened  us  at  dawn.  Urged  on  by  the  bellows 
of  Glasgow  longshoremen,  the  cattle  were  slipping  and  sliding  down 
the  gangway  into  the  wharf  paddock.  Unrestrained  joy  burst  forth 
in  the  feeders'  quarters.  Enmities  were  quickly  forgotten,  the  few 
razors  passed  quickly  from  hand  to  hand,  beards  of  two  weeks'  growth 
disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  bags  were  snatched  open,  the  rags  and 
tatters  that  had  done  duty  as  clothing  on  the  voyage  were  poked  in 
endless  stream  through  the  porthole  into  the  already  poisonous  Clyde, 
and  an  hour  later  the  "  stiffs,"  looking  almost  respectable,  were  scatter- 
ing along  the  silent  streets  of  Sunday-morning  Glasgow. 

Strange  it  seemed  next  morning  to  find  business  moving  as  usual, 
with  no  sounds  of  celebration,  for  it  was  the  Fourth,  "  Independence  " 
or  "  Rebellion  "  day,  according  to  the  nationality  of  the  speaker.  At 
noon  we  gathered  on  board  the  Sardinian  to  receive  our  "  fi'  bob  "  and 
our  discharges  from  the  Board  of  Trade.  These  latter  were  good  for 
the  return  trip  on  the  same  steamer,  but  few  besides  the  bosses  in- 
tended to  avail  themselves  of  the  privilege.  As  for  myself,  I  found 
another  use  for  the  document.  One  who  is  moving  about  Europe  in 
the  garb  of  a  laborer  must  be  ever  ready  to  declare  his  station  in 
life.     The  answer  of  the  American  tramp  that  he  is  "  just  a'  travelin'  " 


1 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  > 

will  not  pass  muster  across  the  water.  To  have  called  myself  a  car- 
penter or  a  teamster  without  corroborating  testimonials  would  have 
been  as  foolish  as  to  have  told  the  truth.  The  discharge  from  the 
Sardinian,  though  issued  to  a  cattle  man,  did  not  differ  materially 
from  that  of  an  able  seaman.  My  corduroy  suit  and  cloth  cap  gave 
me  the  appearance  of  a  Jack  ashore.  I  decided  to  pose  henceforth 
as  a  sailor. 

Tucking  my  kodak  into  an  inside  coat  pocket,  I  sold  my  bag  for 
the  price  of  a  ticket  on  the  night  steamer  to  Belfast.  A  two  days' 
tramp  along  the  highways  of  the  Emerald  Isle  was  a  pleasant  ''  limber- 
ing up  "  for  more  extended  journeys  to  come.  It  might  have  been 
longer  but  for  an  incessant  rain  that  drove  me  back  to  Scotland. 

On  the  afternoon  of  my  return  to  Glasgow  I  struck  out  along  the 
right  bank  of  the  Clyde  towards  the  Highlands.  An  overladen 
highway  led  through  Dumbarton,  a  town  of  factories,  that  poured  its 
waste  products  into  the  sluggish  river  of  poison,  and  brought  me 
at  evening  to  Alexandria.  A  band  was  playing.  I  joined  the  rec- 
reating throng  and  stretched  out  on  the  village  green.  What  a 
strange  fellow  is  the  Scotchman!  In  a  few  short  hours  he  runs 
through  the  whole  gamut  of  emotions,  gloomy  and  despondent  when 
things  go  wrong,  romping  and  joking  a  moment  after. 

The  sun  was  still  well  above  the  horizon  when  the  concert  ended, 
though  the  hour  of  nine  had  already  sounded  from  the  church  spire. 

Not  far  beyond  the  town  the  hills  died  away  on  the  left  and  disclosed 
the  unruffled  surface  of  Loch  Lomond,  its  western  end  aglow  with  the 
light  of  the  drowning  sun.  By  and  by  the  moon  rose  to  cast  a  phos- 
phorescent shimmer  over  the  Loch  and  its  little  wooded  islands.  On 
the  next  hillside  stood  a  field  of  wheat  shocks.  I  turned  into  it, 
giving  the  owner's  house  a  wide  berth.  The  straw  was  fresh  and 
clean,  just  the  thing  for  a  soft  bed.  But  wheat  sheaths  do  not  offer 
substantial  protection  against  the  winds  of  the  Scottish  Highlands,  and 
it  was  not  with  a  sense  of  having  slept  soundly  that  I  rose  at  day- 
break and  pushed  on. 

Two  hours  of  tramping  brought  me  to  Luss,  a  cozy  little  village 
on  the  edge  of  the  Loch.  I  hastened  to  the  principal  street  in  quest 
of  a  restaurant,  but  the  hamlet  was  everywhere  silent  and  asleep. 
Down  on  the  beach  of  the  Loch  a  lone  fisherman,  preparing  his  tackle 
for  the  day's  labor,  took  umbrage  at  my  suggestion  that  his  fellow- 
townsmen  were  late  risers. 

"  Why  mon,  'tis  no  late !  "  he  protested,  "  'tis  no  more  nor  five,  an* 


8        A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

a  bonny  mornin'  it  is,  too.  But  there  's  a  mist  in  it,"  he  added  pessi- 
mistically. 

I  glanced  at  the  bright  morning  sun  and  the  unclouded  sky  and 
set  down  both  statements  for  fiction.  But  a  clock-maker's  win- 
dow down  the  beach  confirmed  the  first,  and  the  second  proved  as 
true  before  the  day  was  done.  Stifling  my  premature  hunger,  I 
stretched  out  on  the  sands  to  await  the  morning  steamer;  for  Ben 
Lomond,  the  ascent  of  which  I  had  planned,  stood  just  across  the  Loch. 

About  six  a  heavy-eyed  shopkeeper  sold  me  a  roll  of  bologna, 
concocted  of  equal  parts  of  pepper  and  meat,  and  a  loaf  of  day-before- 
yesterday's  bread.  The  steamer  whistle  sounded  before  I  had  re- 
gained the  beach.  I  purchased  a  ticket  at  the  shore-end  of  the  dis- 
torted wooden  wharf  and  hurried  out  to  board  the  craft.  My  way  was 
blocked  by  a  burly  Scot  who  demanded  "  tu  p'nce." 

"  But  I  've  paid  my  fare,"  I  protested,  holding  up  the  ticket. 

"  Aye,  mon,  ye  hov,"  rumbled  the  native,  straddling  his  legs  and 
setting  his  elbows  akimbo.  "  Ye  hov,  mon.  But  ye  hovna  paid  fer 
walkin'  oot  t'  yon  boat  on  oor  wharf." 

Ten  minutes  later  I  paid  a  similar  sum  for  the  privilege  of  walking 
off  the  boat  at  Renwardenen. 

Plodding  across  a  half-mile  of  heath  and  morass,  I  struck  into 
the  narrow,  white  path  that  zigzagged  up  the  face  of  the  Ben,  and 
soon  overtook  three  Glasgow  firemen,  off  for  a  day's  vacation  in  the 
hills.  The  mist  that  the  fisherman  had  foreseen  began  to  settle  down 
and  turned  soon  to  a  drenching  rain.  For  five  hours  we  scrambled 
silently  upward  in  Indian  file,  slipping  and  falling  on  wet  rocks  and 
into  deep  bogs,  to  come  at  last  to  a  broad,  flat  boulder  where  the  path 
vanished.  It  was  the  summit  of  old  Ben  Lomond,  a  tiny  island  in  a 
sea  of  whirling  grey  mist,  into  which  the  wind  bowled  us  when  we 
attempted  to  stand  erect.  My  companions  fell  to  cursing  their  luck 
in  expressive  Scotch.  The  remnants  of  a  picnic  lunch  under  the 
shelter  of  a  cairn  tantalized  us  with  the.  thought  of  how  different  the 
scene  would  have  been  on  a  day  of  sunshine.  I  was  reminded,  too, 
of  the  bread  and  bologna  that  had  been  left  over  from  my  breakfast, 
and  I  thrust  a  hand  hopefully  into  my  pocket.  My  fingers  plunged  into 
a  floating  pulp  of  pepper,  dough,  and  bits  of  meat  and  paper  that 
it  would  have  been  an  insult  to  offer  to  share  with  the  hungriest 
mortal ;  and  I  fell  to  munching  the  mess  alone. 

Two  of  the  firemen  decided  to  return  the  way  we  had  come.  With 
the  third  I  set  off  down  the  opposite  slope  towards  Inversnaid.     In 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  9 

the  first  simnltancons  stumble  down  the  mountain  side,  we  lost  all 
sense  of  direction  and,  fetching  up  in  a  boggy  meadow,  wandered  for 
hours  over  knolls  and  through  sw4ft  streams,  now  and  then  scaring 
up  a  flock  of  shaggy  highland  sheep  that  raced  away  down  primeval 
valleys.  Well  on  in  the  afternoon,  as  we  were  telling  ourselves  for 
the  twentieth  time  that  Inversnaid  must  be  just  over  the  next  ridge, 
we  came  suddenly  upon  a  hillside  directly  above  the  landing  stage 
of  Renwardenen.  On  this  side  of  the  Loch  was  neither  highway  nor 
footpath.  For  seven  miles  we  dragged  ourselves,  hand  over  hand, 
through  the  thick  undergrowth,  and  even  then  must  each  take  a  header 
into  an  icy  mountain  river  before  we  reached  our  goal. 

Here  a  new  disappointment  awaited  me.  Instead  of  the  town  I 
had  expected,  Inversnaid  consisted  of  a  landing  stage  and  a  hotel  of 
the  millionaire-club  variety  in  which  my  worldly  wealth  would  scarcely 
have  paid  a  night's  lodging,  even  should  the  house  dogs  have  permitted 
so  bedraggled  a  being  to  approach  the  establishment.  The  fireman 
wandered  down  to  the  wharf  and  I  turned  towards  a  cluster  of  board 
shanties  at  the  roadside. 

"Can  you  sell  me  something  to  eat?"  I  inquired  of  the  sour-faced 
mountaineer  who  opened  the  first  door. 

"  I  can  no !  "  he  snapped,  "  go  to  the  hotel." 

There  were  freshly  baked  loaves  plainly  in  sight  in  the  next  hovel, 
but  I  received  a  similar  rebufiF. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house?  "  I  demanded. 

"  No,  mon,  I  'm  no  runnin'  a  shop." 

"  But  you  can  sell  me  a  loaf  of  that  bread  ?  *' 

"  No !  "  bellowed  the  Scot,  "  we  hovna  got  any.  Go  to  the  hotel. 
Yon  's  the  place  for  tooreests." 

The  invariable  excuse  was  worn  threadbare  before  I  reached  the 
last  hut,  and,  though  I  had  already  covered  twenty-five  miles,  I  struck 
oflF  through  the  sea  of  mud  that  passed  for  a  highway,  towards  Aber- 
foyle,  fifteen  miles  distant. 

The  rain  continued.  An  hour  beyond,  the  road  skirted  the  shore 
of  Loch  Katrine  and  stretched  away  across  a  desolate  moorland. 
Fatigue  drove  away  hunger  and  was  in  turn  succeeded  by  a  drowsiness 
in  which  my  legs  moved  themselves  mechanically,  carrying  me  on 
through  the  dusk  and  into  the  darkness.  It  was  past  eleven  when  I 
splashed  into  Aberfoyle,  too  late  to  find  an  open  shop  in  straight-laced 
Scotland,  and,  routing  out  a  servant  at  a  modest  inn,  I  went  supperless 
to  bed.     Months  afterward,  when  I  was  in  training  for  such  undertak- 


lo      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ings,  a  forty-mile  tramp  left  no  evil  effects ;  at  this  early  stage  of  the 
journey  the  experience  was  not  quickly  forgotten. 

The  attraction  of  the  open  road  was  lacking  when,  late  the  next 
morning,  I  hobbled  out  into  the  streets  of  Aberfoyle,  and,  my  round 
of  sight-seeing  over,  I  wandered  down  to  the  station  and  took  train 
for  Stirling.  Long  before  the  journey  was  ended,  there  appeared,  far 
away  across  the  valleys,  that  most  rugged  of  Scotland's  landmarks, 
the  castle  of  Stirling.  Like  the  base  of  some  giant  pillar  erected  by 
nature  and  broken  off  by  a  mightier  Sampson,  it  stands  in  solemn  isola- 
tion in  a  vast,  rolling  plain,  the  very  symbol  of  staunch  independence 
and  sturdy  defiance. 

My  imagination  far  back  in  the  days  of  Wallace  and  Bruce,  I 
made  my  way  up  to  the  monument  from  the  city  below,  half  expecting, 
as  I  entered  the  ancient  portal,  to  find  myself  surrounded  by  those 
bold  and  fiery  warriors  of  past  ages.  And  surely,  there  they  were! 
That  group  of  men  in  bonnets  and  kilts,  gazing  away  across  the  para- 
pets. Cautiously  I  approached  them.  What  pleasure  it  would  be  to 
hear  the  old  Scottish  tongue  and,  perhaps,  the  story  of  some  feud 
among  the  fierce  clans  of  the  Highlands!  Suddenly  one  of  the  group 
strode  away  across  the  courtyard.  As  he  passed  me,  he  began  to  sing. 
A  minstrel  lay  of  ancient  days,  in  the  old  Gaelic  tongue?  No,  indeed. 
He  had  broken  forth  in  the  rasping  voice  of  a  Liverpool  bootblack, 
juggling  his  H's,  as  only  a  Liverpool  bootblack  can,  in  "  The  Good 
Old  Summer  Time." 

An  hour  afterward  I  faced  the  highway  again,  bound  for  Edinburgh. 
The  route  led  hard  by  the  battle-field  of  Bannockburn,  to-day  a  stretch 
of  waving  wheat,  distinguished  from  the  surrounding  meadows,  that 
history  does  not  know,  only  by  the  flag  of  Britain  above  it.  With 
darkness  I  found  lodging  in  a  wheat  field  overlooking  the  broad 
thoroughfare. 
'f^  The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  the  weather  calorific.  For  all  that, 
the  highroad  had  its  full  quota  of  tramps.  I  passed  the  time  of  day 
with  any  number  of  these  roadsters, —  they  call  them  "  moochers  "  in 
the  British  Isles.  Some  were  sauntering  almost  aimlessly  along  the 
shimmering  route,  others  were  stretched  out  at  apathetic  ease  in  shady 
glens  carpeted  with  freshly-blossomed  bluebells.  The  "  moocher  "  is 
a  being  of  far  less  activity  and  initiative  than  the  American  tramp. 
He  is  content  to  stroll  a  few  miles  each  day,  happy  if  he  gleans  a 
meager  fare  from  the  kindly  disposed.  He  would  .no  more  think  of 
"  beating  his  way  "  on  the  railroads  than  of  building  an  air-ship  for 


^ 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  ii 

his  aimless  and  endless  wanderings.  It  is  always  walk  with  him,  day 
after  day,  week  after  week;  and  if,  by  chance,  he  hears  of  the  swift 
travel  by  "  blind-baggage  "  and  the  full  meals  that  fall  to  his  counter- 
part across  the  water,  he  stamps  them  at  once  "  bloody  lies." 

In  stranger  contrast  to  the  American,  the  British  tramp  is  quite  apt 
to  be  a  family  man.  As  often  as  not  he  travels  with  a  female  com- 
panion whom  he  styles,  within  her  hearing  and  apparently  with  her 
entire  acquiescence,  "  me  Moll "  or  "  me  heifer."  But  whatever  his 
stamping  ground  the  tramp  is  essentially  the  same  fellow  the  world 
over.  Buoyant  of  spirits  for  all  his  pessimistic  grumble,  generous  to 
a  fault,  he  eyes  the  stranger  with  deep  suspicion  at  the  first  greeting, 
as  uncommunicative  and  noncommittal  as  a  bivalve.  Then  a  look,  a 
gesture  suggests  the  world-wide  question,  "On  the  road.  Jack?" 
Answer  it  affirmatively  and,  though  your  fatherland  be  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  earth,  he  is  ready  forthwith  to  open  his  heart  and  to 
divide  with  you  his  last  crust. 

I  reached  Edinburgh  in  the  early  afternoon,  and,  following  the 
signs  that  pointed  the  way  to  the  poor  man's  section,  brought  up  in 
(Haymarket  Square.  A  multitude  of  unemployed,  in  groups  and  in 
pairs,  sauntering  back  and  forth,  lounging  about  the  foot  of  the  central 
statue,  filled  the  place.  Here  a  hooligan,  ragged  and  unkempt  as  his 
hearers,  was  holding  forth,  to  as  many  as  cared  to  listen,  on  the  subject 
of  governmental  iniquities.  There  another,  less  fortunate  than  his 
unfortunate  fellows,  wandered  from  group  to  group  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
vainly  trying  to  sell  his  coat  for  a  "  tanner  "  to  pay  a  night's  lodging. 

High  above  towered  the  vast  bulk  of  Edinburgh  castle.  A  royal  in- 
fant lowered  from  its  windows,  as  happened,  'tis  said,  in  the  merry 
days  of  Queen  Bess,  would  land  to-day  in  a  most  squalid  lodging  house. 
Indeed,  this  is  one  point  that  the  indigent  wanderer  gains  over  the 
wealthy  tourist.  The  cheap  quarters,  the  slums  of  to-day  are,  in  many 
a  European  city,  the  places  where  the  history  of  yesterday  was  made. 
The  great  man  of  a  century  ago  did  not  dwell  in  a  shaded  suburb ;  he 
made  his  home  where  now  the  hooligan  and  the  laborer  eke  out  a  pre- 
carious existence. 

The  sorry-looking  building  at  the  foot  ©f  the  castle  rock  bore  the 
sign  :— 

"  Edinburgh  Castle  Inn.     Clean,  Capacious  Beds,  6d." 

I  had  too  often  been  misled  by  similar  self-assertive  adjurations 
to  expect  any  serious  striving  on  the  part  of  the  proprietor  to  keep 


12      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

down  not  far  ir^Z  bte"     £d  s^^'ir^"'^   "'^   ^"^ 

.- _  Of  .3  S„n.a.  ,oves  towU^ Ho^rJ^i  C^^. -^ 

;;But  that  place  is  not  clean! "  I  protested. 
Not  clean!     Certainly  it 's  dean  t     Th^r«  •       u, 
'em  keep  'em  dean"  and  "  Rnll  "     ,7    '  ^  '''°°'"'"'  '^^  ""kes 
«.^Kin.s  Par.iam;nt-a^„,  TeU^^  pi.- ^  ^t  -- 

fromtr  trt:  i"hfdt^3;\isird^%'"--^^  *-"-  -  --p^ 

misshapen  wicket,  I  received  a  I'hH-       ^"^  "^  "*'""''"  "*  " 
passed  into  the  main  room      It  Ir/'""^-'.    ,"""'^'"  °'  '^>'  ^*^  ^^^ 
and  a  cooking  estabHshmer    Jor  f^ur  p^n'^e  ^  e"''  '•^"'^'.•^^'  '^'"^^' 
before  him  an  unappetizine  tho,,lh  f    T    !        ^"''*  "'^^'  '^^^^  ^et 
the  greater  number'o      hf  inmatt    Z'        "''"''  ^"PP^"-"     ^^  '^^ 
several  cooking  stoves  at  the  h,H      I    u       '  ^""'  '^■""^^^  ^^"""d 
utensils  were  provided  „it     to  a  f  t    .';°°"-     ^^'^^'  ^"^'-  -'^ 
the  stoves  wa's   sputterfng  ^r  bole  "^^  '"'  '"^'^  '°'^'"^"-     ^n 
tended  by  tattered  men  w!o  hand    d  frv[    ''  """"''  °^  '^'^^  f°°d, 
as  holders,  and  cut  up  caTbaees  nrn  ^7'"^""'"'  ^'*  '^''"  ^^^'-'^"^ 
blades  of  which  were  half  fnch  7      .    ^!"'''''  '""^  ^'"'"''  °"  '^e 
concoction  with  thlgreate     r"  .shtf     '  °'  •"'f'^"-     ^^"^"^  ^^'^  '- 
of  approaching  an  edible  tnl^n  g  neTally'itr '  ^,1  '"^*  ^'^^ 
-e  ;or  boiling  messes  to  cool,  th^V^e  •:rmrti?or^ 

for  Rotterdam.  The  Tteera'e  t^'^^'^'f  °"  *<^  5«'«^^V«  //,  bound 
accommodations,  an  Ltava^nt  nr-7'\'/'  "'"""^^'  '■"  ^■^^  "^  '"e 
chaos  of  so-cali;d  ZZsl^ltZ:'^    I '::'\'°''''''"''''"' '"^'^  'he 

ot2:f:Sa-er£^^^^^^ 

0-  Of  the  mattrLes^aS  ^S-rirtulSe  n.^ 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  13 

into  a  walking  nightmare,  which  I  spent  in  congratulating  myself  that 
the  voyage  was  to  be  of  short  duration. 

I  climbed  on  deck  at  sunrise  to  find  the  ship  steaming  at  half  speed 
through  a  placid  canal.  Far  down  below  us  were  clusters  of  squat 
cottages,  the  white  smoke  of  kindling  fires  curling  slowly  upward  from 
their  chimneys.  Here  and  there  a  peasant,  looking  quite  tiny  from 
the  height  of  our  deck,  crawled  along  across  the  flat  meadows.  Away 
in  the  distance  several  stocky  windmills  were  turning  slowly  yet  cease- 
lessly in  the  morning  breeze. 

The  canal  opened  out  into  the  teeming  harbor  of  Rotterdam.  A 
custom's  officer  inquired  my  profession,  slapped  me  paternally  on  the 
back  with  a  warning  in  German  to  beware  the  "  schlcchte  Lente"  who 
lay  in  wait  for  seamen  ashore,  and  dismissed  me,  while  the  well-dressed 
tourist  still  fumed  over  the  uninspected  luggage  in  his  cabin. 

I  quickly  tired  of  the  confines  of  the  city  and  turned  out  along 
the  flat  highway  to  Delft.  The  route  skirted  a  great  canal ;  at  intervals 
it  crossed  branch  waterways,  all  half-hidden  by  cumbersome  cargo- 
boats.  Heavily  laden  boats  toiled  slowly  by  on  their  way  to  market, 
empty  boats  glided  easily  homeward.  On  board,  stocky  men,  bowed 
double  over  heavy  pike-poles,  marched  laboriously  from  bow  to  stern. 
Along  the  graveled  tow-paths  that  checkered  the  flat  landscape,  buxom 
women  strained  like  over-burdened  oxen  at  the  tow-ropes  about  their 
shoulders.  Wherever  one  met  him  the  boating  Dutchman  shared 
most  fairly  with  his  wife  the  labor  of  propelling  his  unwieldy  craft, 
except  that  the  wife  walked  and  the  Dutchman  rode. 

In  the  early  afternoon  I  briefly  visited  Delft,  and  pushed  on  towards 
the  Hague.  No  wayfarer,  obviously,  could  in  a  single  day  become 
accustomed  to  the  national  clatter  of  wooden  shoes.  Beyond  Delft  I 
turned  into  a  narrow  roadway  paved  in  cobble-stones  and  flanked  by 
two  canals.  It  was  a  quiet  route  even  for  Holland.  In  serene  con- 
tentment I  pursued  my  lonely  way,  gazing  off  across  the  unbroken 
landscape.  Suddenly  a  galloping  "  rat-a-tat "  sounded  close  behind 
me.  What  else  but  a  runaway  horse  could  produce  such  a  devil's 
tattoo?  To  pause  and  glance  behind  might  cost  me  my  life,  for  the 
frenzied  brute  was  almost  upon  me.  With  a  swiftness  born  of  fear 
I  took  to  my  heels.  A  few  yards  beyond  was  a  luckily-placed  foot- 
bridge over  one  of  the  canals.  I  made  a  flying  leap  at  the  structure 
and  gained  it  in  safety,  just  as  there  dashed  by  me  at  full  speed  —  a 
Hollander  of  some  six  summers,  bound  to  market  with  a  basket  on 
his  arm ! 


14      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  S-Gravenhage,"  as  the  Dutchman  calls  his  capital,  was  a  city 
teeming  with  interest;  but  Holland  was  one  of  those  countries 
which  I  purposed  to  "  do  "  in  orthodox  tourist  fashion  and,  after  a 
few  short  hours  in  the  royal  borough,  I  sought  out  the  highway  to 
Leiden.  My  seeking  was  not  particularly  successful.  The  mongrel 
commixture  of  German,  English,  and  pantomime  in  which  I  carried 
on  conversation  with  the  natives  was  a  delectable  language,  but  it 
did  not  always  gain  me  lucid  directions.  Sharply  prosecuted  in- 
quiries brought  me  to  a  road  to  Leiden,  right  enough,  but  it  was  not 
the  public  highway.  Thanks  to  some  misconstruction  of  the  native 
dactylology,  I  set  out  for  the  stamping  ground  of  Rembrandt  along 
the  old  royal  driveway. 

It  was  a  pleasure,  of  course,  to  travel  by  the  Queen's  own  prome- 
nade, especially  as  it  led  through  a  fragrant  forest  park.  Unfortu- 
nately, a  royal  demesne  is  no  place  in  which  to  find  an  inn  when  hunger 
and  darkness  come  on.  This  one  had  not  even  a  cross-road  to  lead 
me  back  to  the  main  highway,  and  I  plodded  on  into  the  night  amid 
unbroken  solitude.  Just  what  hour  it  was  when  I  reached  Leiden  I 
know  not.  Beyond  question  it  was  late,  for  the  good  people,  and  even 
the  bad,  except  a  few  drowsy  policemen,  were  sound  asleep ;  and  with 
a  painful  number  of  miles  in  my  legs  I  went  to  bed  on  a  pile  of  lum- 
ber. 

The  warming  sun  rose  none  too  early,  though  long  before  the  first 
shopkeeper.  Still  fasting  I  set  off  towards  Haarlem.  On  these  flat 
lowlands  this  Sabbath  day  was  oppressively  hot.  Yet  how  dolorously 
devout  appeared  the  peasants  who  plodded  for  miles  along  the  dusty 
highway  to  the  village  church !  The  men,  those  same  men  so  com- 
fortably picturesque  in  their  work-a-day  clothes,  marched  in  their 
cumbersome  Sunday  garments  like  converts  doing  penance  for  their 
sins.  The  women,  buxom  always,  but  painfully  awkward  in  stiffly 
starched  gowns,  tramped  swelteringly  behind  the  males.  Even  the 
children,  the  rollicking  youngsters  of  the  day  before,  were  imprisoned 
in  homemade  straight-jackets  and  suffered  martyrdom  in  uncomplain- 
ing silence.  But  one  and  all  had  a  cheery  word  for  the  passerby  and 
never  that  sour  look  which  one  "  on  the  road  "  encounters  on  British 
highways. 

Often,  since  leaving  Rotterdam,  I  had  wondered  at  the  absence  of 
wells  in  the  rural  districts.  Surely  these  peasants'  cottages  were  not 
connected  by  water-mains!  Pondering  the  question,  I  had  thus  far 
quenched  my  thirst  only  in  the  villages.     But  towards  noon  on  this 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  15 

hot  Sunday  an  imperative  call  for  water  drove  me  to  turn  in  at  an 
isolated  cottage.  Beside  the  road  ran  the  omnipresent  canal.  A 
narrow  foot-bridge  crossed  it  to  the  gate  before  the  dwelling,  around 
which  flowed  a  branch  of  the  main  waterway,  giving  a  mooring  for 
the  peasant's  canal-boat.  The  gate  proved  impregnable  and  it  re- 
quired much  shouting  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  householder.  At 
last,  from  around  a  corner  of  the  building,  a  Vrouiv  of  the  most  buxom 
type  hove  into  view  and  bore  down  upon  me  as  an  ocean  liner  sails 
into  a  calm  harbor.  My  knowledge  of  Dutch  being  nil,  I  followed  my 
usual  method  of  coining  a  language  by  a  process  of  elimination.  Per- 
haps the  lady  spoke  some  German. 

"  Ein  Glas  Wasser,  bitte." 

"Vat?" 

It  could  do  no  harm  to  give  my  mother  tongue  a  trial. 

"  A  glass  of  water." 

"Eh!" 

I  tried  a  mixture  of  the  two  languages.  For  what  is  Dutch  after 
all  than  a  jumble  of  badly  spelled  English  and  German  words  with 
the  endings  lopped  off? 

"  Ein  glass  of  vater."     It  was  the  open  sesame. 

"  Vater  ?  "  shrieked  the  lady  with  such  vehemence  that  the  rooster 
in  the  back  yard  leaped  sideways  a  distance  of  six  feet.     "  Vater !  " 

"  Ja,  vater,  bitte." 

A  profound  silence  succeeded,  a  silence  so  absolute  that  one  could 
have  heard  a  fly  pass  by  a  hundred  feet  above.  Slowly  the  lady  placed 
a  heavy  hand  on  the  intervening  gate.  A  shadow  passed  over  her  face, 
as  though  she  were  mentally  calculating  the  strength  of  resistance  of 
the  barrier  against  a  madman.  Then,  with  a  bovine  snort,  she  wheeled 
about  and  waddled  towards  the  house.  Close  under  the  eaves  of  the 
cottage  hung  a  tin  basin.  Snatching  it  down  without  a  pause,  the  hu- 
man steamship  set  a  course  for  the  family  anchorage,  stooped,  dipped 
up  a  basinful  of  that  selfsame  weed-clogged  water  that  flowed  by  in 
abundance  at  my  feet,  and  tacked  back  across  the  yard  to  offer  it  to  me 
with  a  magnanimous  sigh  of  resignation.  I  quenched  my  thirst  there- 
after, in  rural  Holland,  at  roadside  canals,  after  the  manner  of  beasts 
of  the  field  —  and  Hollanders. 

Miles  away  from  Haarlem  appeared  the  great  flower-farms  for 
which  this  region  is  famous  and,  growing  more  and  more  frequent, 
continued  into  the  very  suburbs  of  the  city  itself.  Across  the  ultra- 
fertile  plain  beyond,  the  broad  highway  to  Amsterdam  ran  as  straight 


i6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

as  a  geometrical  line.  From  the  city  of  tulips  to  where  it  disappeared 
in  the  fog  of  rising  heat  waves,  the  thoroughfare  was  thronged  with 
vehicles,  riders,  and,  above  all,  with  wheelmen,  who,  refusing  to 
swerve  a  hair's  breadth  for  my  convenience,  drove  me  ever  and  anon 
into  the  wayside  ditch.  The  Hollander  is,  ordinarily,  an  obliging  fel- 
low, and  in  the  main  the  humble  workman  or  pedestrian  is  fairly 
treated.  Yet  that  distinct  line  of  demarkation  between  the  "  com- 
moner "  and  the  "  upper  class  "  is  never  obliterated.  The  American 
laborer  may  spend  some  time  in  the  British  Isles  without  noting  this 
discrimination ;  he  will  not  be  long  on  the  continent  before  the  advan- 
tage of  his  status  at  home  is  shown  forth  in  plain  relief. 

There  is  not  that  gradual  shading  off  from  the  professional  man  to 
the  coal-heaver  that  exists  in  the  United  States.  One  can  no  more 
conceive  of  a  Hollander  who  looks  forward  to  a  career  in  the  gentler 
walks  of  life  "  beginning  at  the  bottom  "  than  of  one  who  aspires  to 
the  papacy  taking  a  wife.  He  whose  appearance  stamps  him  as  of 
those  who  live  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow  cannot  complain  of  any  overt 
act  of  oppression.  Yet  he  is  early  reminded  that,  as  a  worker  with 
his  hands,  he  has  a  distinct  place  in  society  and  that  he  must  keep  to  it. 
Among  his  fellow  workmen,  in  his  own  caste,  he  lives  and  moves  and 
has  his  being  as  in  our  own  land.  But  in  other  ranks  he  catches  here 
and  there  a  glance,  a  gesture,  a  protesting  silence,  that  brings  home 
to  him  his  lowly  status. 

My  zigzag  tramp  ended  late  in  the  afternoon,  and,  after  a  deal  of 
wandering  in  and  out  among  the  canals  of  the  metropolis,  I  took  a 
garret  lodging  overhanging  a  sluggish  waterway.  The  proverbial 
cleanliness  of  Holland  is  no  mere  figure  of  speech.  Few  cities  of  the 
same  size  have  as  little  of  the  slum  district  within  their  confines  as 
Amsterdam.  The  Dutch  laborer  is,  in  many  ways,  far  better  off  than 
those  oi  the  same  class  across  the  channel.  In  the  city  there  is  always  a 
KofHe  lluis  close  at  hand,  where  eggs,  milk,  cheeses,  and  dairy  prod- 
ucts in  general  are  served  at  small  cost  and  in  cleanly  surroundings. 
Compare  this  diet  with  that  of  the  British  workman,  who  subsists  often, 
not  on  food,  but  on  the  waste  products  of  those  places  where  food  is 
prepared.  One  can  identify  a  Briton  of  the  lower  classes  by  his  teeth. 
At  twenty  he  has  a  dozen,  perhaps,  that  are  neither  broken  off, 
crumbling,  black,  nor  missing.  At  thirty  he  shows  a  few  yellow  fangs. 
But  one  cannot  determine  the  class  of  the  Hollander  by  the  same  sign. 
His  diet  is  too  wholesome. 

Parks,  museums,  laborers'  quarters,  and  the  necessity  of  a  protracted 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  17 

search  each  evening  for  my  canalside  garret  kept  me  three  days  in 
Amsterdam.  On  the  fourth  I  drifted  on  board  one  of  the  tiny 
steamers  of  the  Zuidersee  and  journeyed  to  Hoorn.  Hoorn  is  one  of 
Holland's  dead  cities,  one  of  the  many  from  which  prosperity  and 
wealth  departed  to  come  no  more  as  the  shifting  sands  of  the  North 
Sea  blocked  up  their  channels  and  drove  away  the  rich  commerce  that 
was  their  fortune.  Now  they  are  dead  indeed.  A  tiny  remnant  of  a 
great  population  clatters  along  their  deserted  streets,  a  few  of  the 
ancient  mansions  house  humbler  inmates,  and  all  about  is  ruin. 

By  no  means  regretting  the  whim  that  had  carried  me  away  to  this 
land  of  yesterday,  I  set  back  along  the  See  towards  Amsterdam.  The 
typical  Hollander  is  nowhere  seen  to  better  advantage  than  in  this  dis- 
trict. The  population  plies  two  vocations.  Along  the  shores  and  on 
the  adjoining  islands  the  stolid,  picturesque  fisherman  is  predominant. 
In  the  great,  flat  meadows  the  care  of  his  cattle  occupies  the  no  less 
stolid,  if  less  quaint,  peasant. 

There  are  wheat  shocks  even  in  Holland.  As  night  was  falling  over 
the  vast  plain  I  withdrew  to  a  roadside  field  and  retired.  A  Dutchman 
spied  me  out  in  my  resting-place  at  some  silent  hour,  but  sped  away 
across  the  country  like  a  firm  believer  in  ghosts  when  I  offered  to 
share  my  bed.  I  awoke  at  daybreak  to  find  myself  within  sight  of  the 
much  maligned  island  of  Marken,  with  an  unobstructed  view  of  the 
quaint  old  church  of  Monnickendam,  a  once  populous  city  that  has 
shrunk  to  a  baggy-trousered  hamlet  of  fisherfolk.  Beyond  the  town 
there  rattled  by  occasionally  a  milk  or  baker's  cart,  drawn,  now  by  one 
dog,  now  by  a  team  of  two  or  three,  harnessed  together  with  utter  dis- 
regard to  size,  breed,  or  disposition.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a  canine  and 
a  human  team-mate  tugged  together  at  the  traces. 

There  ran  a  rumor  in  my  favorite  Kofiie  Huis  soon  after  my  ar- 
rival at  Amsterdam  in  the  afternoon,  that  a  cargo-boat  which  carried 
passengers  for  a  song  was  to  leave  at  four  for  Arnheim  on  the  Rhine. 
I  thrust  a  lunch  into  a  pocket  and  hurried  down  to  the  mooring-place 
of  the  international  liner.  She  was  a  canal-boat  some  twenty-five  feet 
long  and  eight  wide,  as  black  as  a  coal-barge,  though  by  no  means  as 
clean;  her  uncovered  deck  piled  high  with  boxes,  barrels,  and  crates 
ranging  in  contents  from  beer  mugs  to  protesting  live  stock.  I  scram- 
bled over  the  cargo  and  found  a  seat  on  a  barrel  of  oil.  It  was  already 
after  four,  but  there  was  really  no  reason  for  my  anxious  haste.  No 
Dutch  cargo-boat  was  ever  known  to  depart  at  the  hour  set. 

It  turned  out  that  the  overburdened  craft  was  not  yet  loaded.     From 


i8      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

time  to  time  lethargic  longshoremen  wandered  down  to  the  wharf  with 
more  bales,  crates,  and  boxes,  and  stacked  them  high  about  us.  It 
was  long  after  dark  when  their  task  was  done,  and,  what  with  quarrels 
between  the  captain  and  the  crew  as  to  the  proper  channel,  we  were 
scarcely  out  of  the  harbor  when  dawn  broke. 

A  long  day  we  spent  in  jumping  about  the  cargo  like  jack-rabbits, 
in  a  vain  attempt  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  crew  searching  for  a 
bale  to  set  ashore  at  each  wayside  village.  That  alone  would  have  been 
endurable.  But  our  lives  were  made  miserable  by  two  Hungarians, 
owners  of  a  barrel  organ,  who  insisted  that  the  infernal  squawk  which 
the  machine  emitted  was  "  moosik,"  and  who  had  the  audacity  to  invite 
us  periodically  to  pay  for  the  torture. 

I  left  the  cargo-boat  at  Arnheim  and,  halting  at  the  principal  cities 
on  its  banks,  made  my  way  up  the  Rhine  by  steamer  and  on  foot  in  a 
few  days  to  Mainz.  From  there  I  turned  eastward  along  the  highway 
to  Frankfurt.  Strange  and  varied  had  been  my  sleeping-places  in 
Germany.  The  innkeepers  of  the  Fatherland,  fearful  of  punishment 
for  lodging  those  who  turn  out  to  be  "  wanted  "  by  His  Majesty's 
officers,  are  chary  of  offering  accommodations  to  strangers.  Whether 
it  was  due  to  the  garb  that  stamped  me  as  a  wanderer  or  to  a  foreign 
accent,  it  was  my  fate  to  be  treated  in  the  Kaiser's  realm  as  an  ex- 
tremely suspicious  member  of  society. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  I  reached  Frankfurt.  The  highway 
ended  among  the  palatial  edifices  of  the  business  section,  and  I  wan- 
dered long  in  search  of  the  poorer  quarters.  At  last,  in  a  dingy 
side  street  a  tavern,  offering  logieren  at  one  mark,  drew  my  attention. 
Truly  it  was  a  high  price  to  pay  for  a  bed,  but  the  hour  was  late 
and  the  night  stormy.  I  entered  the  drinking-room,  and  waiting 
until  the  Kellner  could  catch  a  moment's  respite  from  his  strenuous 
task  of  silencing  the  shouts  of  "  Glas  Bier  "  that  rose  above  the  tumult, 
made  my  wants  known. 

"  Beds  ?  "  cried  the  Kellner,  too  busy  with  his  glasses  to  look  up 
at  me,  "  To  be  sure.     We  have  always  plenty  of  beds.     One  mark." 

But  mein  Herr  the  proprietor  was  staring  at  me  from  the  back  of 
the  hall.  Slowly  he  shuffled  forward,  cocked  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  scrutinized  me  intently  from  out  his  bleary  eyes. 

"  What  does  he  want  ?  "  he  demanded,  turning  to  the  tapster. 

I  answered  the  query  myself  and  the  customary  inquisition  began. 

"  Woher  kommen  Sie  ?  " 

Knowing  from  experience  the  order  of  the  questions,  I  launched 


A  baker's  cart  of  Holland  on  the  morning  round 


A  public  laundry  on  the  Rhine  at  Mainz,  Germany 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  21 

forth  into  the  story  of  my  Hfe,  past,  present,  and  future,  or  one  shoe 
of  it  as  was  in  keeping  with  the  assertion  that  I  was  an  A  falsetto 
sailor  on  a  sight-seeing  expedition  in  the  Fatherland.  Plarembling 
hearers  regarded  it  as  a  clumsy  tale.  Long  before  I  had  endcv^oing 
proprietor,  the  Kellner,  and  those  clients  of  the  house  that  hi^p 
clustered  around  us,  fell  to  nudging  each  other  with  grimaces  of  in- 
credulity. The  Wirt,  harassed  by  the  conflicting  emotions  of  greed 
and  fear,  blinked  his  pudgy  eyes  and  glanced  for  inspiration  into 
the  faces  about  him.  The  temptation  to  add  another  mark  to  his  cof- 
fers was  strong  within  him.  Yet  what  would  the  police  inspector 
say  in  the  morning  to  the  name  of  a  foreigner  on  his  register?  He 
scratched  his  grizzly  poll  with  a  force  that  suggested  that  he  was 
going  clear  down  through  it  to  extract  an  idea  with  his  stubby  fingers, 
glanced  once  more  at  the  tipplers,  and  surrendered  to  fear. 

"  Es  tut  mir  leid,  Junge,"  he  puflfed,  with  a  prolonged  blink,  "  I  am 
sorry,  but  we  have  not  a  bed  left  in  the  house." 

I  wandered  out  into  the  night  and  told  my  story  to  a  second,  a 
third,  and  even  a  fourth  innkeeper  with  the  same  result.  In  despair 
I  turned  in  at  the  fifth  house  resolved  to  try  a  strange  plan  —  to 
tell  the  truth.  In  carefully  chosen  words  I  explained  my  identity 
and  my  purpose  in  visiting  Germany  in  laborer's  garb.  Never  before 
since  leaving  Detroit  had  I  resorted  to  such  an  expedient,  and  I  took 
good  care  not  to  repeat  the  experiment  during  my  subsequent  travels. 
I  had  barely  elucidated  my  situation  when  the  landlord  informed  me 
in  no  uncertain  terms  that  I  was  a  liar  and  an  ass  into  the  bargain; 
and  that  a  hasty  retreat  from  his  establishment  was  the  surest  way 
of  preserving  my  good  health.  He  was  a  creature  of  awe-inspiring 
proportions,  and  I  followed  his  suggestion  promptly.  At  midnight 
a  policeman  directed  me  to  an  inn  where  suspicious  characters  were 
less  of  a  novelty,  and  I  was  soon  asleep. 

I  had  not  yet  well  learned  the  lesson,  begun  in  the  British  Isles, 
that  the  homes  of  the  famous  of  a  century  ago  are  the  slums  of 
to-day.  Next  morning  I  turned  back  to  the  brilliant  thoroughfares, 
expecting  to  find  somewhere  along  them  the  birthplace  of  Goethe. 
Once  amid  such  surroundings  as  the  greatest  of  the  Germans  might 
fittingly  have  graced  by  his  presence,  I  addressed  myself  to  a  police- 
man. Goethe?  Why,  yes,  the  name  seemed  familiar.  He  was  not 
sure,  but  he  fancied  the  fellow  lived  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  city, 
and  directed  me  accordingly.  The  way  led  through  narrow,  winding 
streets.     Now  and  then  I  went  astray,  to  be  set  right  again  by  other 


VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

;  of  the  law.     The  quest  cost  me  a  goodly  amount  of  shoe- 

xnd  most  of  the  morning,  but  I  found  at  last  the  landmark  I 

_King  —  exactly  across  the  street  from  the  inn  in  which  I  had 

There  was  in  Frankfurt  after  all  a  lodging  house  where  wanderers 
free  from  the  burden  of  wealth  were  welcome.  I  came  across  it 
during  the  day's  roaming  and  took  care  not  to  forget  its  location. 
Several  disreputable  humans  were  wending  their  way  thither  as  twi- 
light fell  and,  joining  them,  I  entered  a  great,  dingy  hall,  low  of  ceil- 
ing, and  poorly  served  in  the  matter  of  windows.  A  cadaverous 
female,  established  behind  a  rust-eaten  wicket,  was  dealing  out 
Schlafmarken  at  thirty  Pfennig  (7  cents)  each.  I  pocketed  one  and 
hastened  to  find  a  place  on  one  of  the  wooden  benches ;  for  the  hall 
was  rapidly  filling  with  members  of  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Great 
Unwashed. 

Drowsiness  came  quickly  in  the  stifling  atmosphere.  I  stepped  to 
the  wicket  and  asked  to  be  shown  to  my  quarters. 

"  What !  "  croaked  the  hollow-eyed  matron,  "  bed  ?  You  can't  sleep 
yet.     Wait  till  you  hear  the  bell  at  ten-thirty." 

I  turned  back  to  the  bench  only  to  find  that  another  squatter  had 
jumped  my  claim.  Too  sleepy  to  stand  unaided,  I  hung  myself  up 
against  the  wall  and  waited.  If  the  dreams  from  which  I  was 
aroused  were  not  much  shorter  than  they  seemed,  several  days  passed 
before  there  sounded  the  sudden  clang  of  an  iron-voiced  bell.  The 
resulting  stampede  carried  me  to  the  second  floor. 
•  In  an  evilly-ventilated  room,  lower  of  ceiling  than  the  hall  below,  I 
found  that  cot  thirty-seven,  to  which  I  had  been  assigned,  could  be 
reached  only  by  climbing  over  several  of  the  sixty  which  as  many 
men  in  varying  stages  of  insobriety  were  preparing  to  occupy.  By 
a  series  of  contortions,  in  the  execution  of  which  I  often  thumped 
with  my  elbows  the  man  behind  me  and  displaced  my  cot  sufficiently 
to  cause  the  downfall  of  my  opposite  neighbor,  whose  equilibrium 
was  far  from  stable,  I  succeeded  in  removing  my  shoes  and  coat. 
To  venture  further  in  the  disrobing  process  seemed  undesirable.  I 
spread  my  germ-proof  jacket  across  the  animated  coverlet  and  lay 
down.  Before  the  last  sot  had  ceased  his  maudlin  grumbling  there 
broke  out  here  and  there  in  the  room  a  dialogue  of  snores.  Rapidly 
it  increased  to  a  chorus.  In  ten  minutes  the  ensemble  would  have  put 
to  shame  the  most  atrocious  steam  calliope  ever  inflicted  upon  a 
defenceless  public.     Reiterated  kicks  and  punches   reduced  to  com- 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  21 

parative  silence  the  few  slumberers  within  reach;  by  shying  one  shoe 
at  a  distant  sleeper  whose  specialty  was  a  nerve-racking  falsetto 
and  the  other  at  a  fellow  whose  deep  bass  set  the  cots  to  trembling 
in  sympathy,  I  brought  a  moment's  respite.  But  the  dread  of  going 
forth  in  the  morning  unshod  drove  me  on  an  expedition  across  the 
bodies  of  my  room-mates  and,  by  the  time  I  had  recovered  my  foot- 
wear, the  chorus  was  again  swelling  forth  in  Wagnerian  volume.  I 
gave  up  in  despair  and  settled  down  on  the  hill  and  dale  mattress  to 
convince  myself  that  I  was  sleeping  in  spite  of  the  infernal  bedlam. 

There  runs  a  proverb,  the  origin  of  which  is  lost  among  the 
traditions  of  hoar  antiquity,  to  the  effect  that  misfortunes  travel 
in  bands.  That  it  is  true  I  have  never  doubted  since  the  day  fol- 
lowing that  broken-backed  night  in  Frankfurt.  It  was  curiosity  that 
called  down  upon  my  head  this  new  adversity,  for  naught  else  could 
have  moved  me  to  investigate  the  secrets  hidden  behind  a  fourth- 
class  ticket  to  Weimar.  In  all  the  countries  of  Europe  there  is 
nothing  that  compares  with  the  fourth-class  railway  service  of  Ger- 
many. The  necessity  of  providing  some  mode  of  transportation 
cheaper  than  walking  may  be  an  excuse  for  its  perpetration,  but  woe 
betide  the  unsuspecting  traveler  who,  for  mere  matter  of  economy, 
abandons  for  this  system  that  of  our  ancient  forebears. 

Intending  to  take  the  nine  o'clock  tram,  I  purchased  a  ticket  about 
eight-forty  and  stepped  out  upon  the  platform  just  in  time  to  hear 
a  guard  bellow  the  German  variation  of  "  all  aboard."  The  Weimar 
train  stood  close  at  hand.  As  I  stepped  towards  it,  four  policemen, 
strutting  about  the  platform,  let  out  simultaneous  war-whoops,  ami 
sprang  after  me. 

"  Wo  gehen  Sie  hin?  "  shrieked  the  first  to  reach  me. 

"  Ich  gehe  nach  Weimar." 

"  Aber,  the  train  to  Weimar  is'  gone !  "  shouted  the  second  officer. 

As  I  had  a  hand  on  the  carriage  door,  I  made  so  bold  as  to  deny 
the  assertion. 

"  Aber,  ja,  er  ist  fort !  "  gasped  the  sergeant  who  brought  up  the 
rear  of  the  constabulary  deluge.  "  It  is  gone !  The  guard  has  already 
said  *  all  aboard.'  " 

The  train  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  platform  long  enough  to  have 
emptied  and  filled  again ;  but,  as  it  was  gone  ten  minutes  before  it 
started,  I  was  forced  to  wait  for  the  next  one  at  ten-thirty. 

The  fourth-class  carriage,  unlike  other  European  cars,  was  built 
on  the  American  plan,  with  a  door  at  each  end.     In  reality  it  was 


22      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

nothing  more  than  a  box  car  with  wooden  benches  around  the  sides 
and  a  few  apologies  for  windows.  Almost  before  we  were  under 
way,  the  most  unkempt  couple  aboard  stood  up  and  turned  loose  what 
they  evidently  thought  was  a  song.  Many  of  the  passengers  seemed 
to  be  victims  of  the  same  auricular  illusion,  for  the  pair  gleaned  a 
handful  of  Pfennige  before  descending  at  the  first  station.  The  bawl 
of-  cracked  voices,  however,  was  but  a  prelude  to  worse  visitations, 
for,  as  no  train  man  enters  the  cars  while  they  are  in  motion,  fourth- 
class  travelers  are  the  prey  of  every  grafter  who  chooses  to  inflict 
himself  upon  them. 

We  stopped  at  a  station  at  least  every  four  miles  during  that 
day's  journey.  At  the  first  hamlet  beyond  Frankfurt  the  car  slowly 
filled  with  peasants  and  laborers  in  heavy  boots  and  rough  smocks, 
who  carried  sundry  farm  implements  ranging  from  pitchforks  to 
young  plows.  Sunburned  women,  on  whose  backs  were  strapped 
huge  baskets  stuffed  with  every  product  of  the  countryside  from  cab- 
bages to  babies,  packed  into  the  center  of  the  car,  turned  their 
backs  upon  those  of  us  who  occupied  the  benches,  and  serenely 
leaned  themselves  and  their  loads  against  us.  The  carriage  filled 
at  last  to  its  utmost  limits,  and  its  capacity  passed  belief,  a  guard 
outside  closed  the  heavy  door  with  a  bang,  and  uttered  a  mighty 
shout  of  "  Vorsichi" I  (look  out),  evidently  to  inform  those  near  the 
portal  that  they  were  lucky  to  have  "  looked  out "  before  it  was 
slammed.  The  station  master  on  the  platform,  a  man  boasting  a 
uniform  no  American  rear-admiral  could  afford,  or  dare  to  appear  in, 
raised  a  hunting-horn  to  his  lips  and  gave  as  a  signal  of  departure 
such  a  blast  as  echoed  through  the  ravines  of  Roncesvalles.  The 
head-guard  drew  his  whistle  and  shrilly  seconded  the  command  of  his 
superior.  The  engineer  whistled  back  to  inform  the  guard  that  he 
was  ready  to  do  his  duty.  The  guard  repeated  his  sibilant  order. 
The  driver  liberated  another  pent-up  shriek  to  show  how  easily  his 
engine  could  reach  high  C,  or  to  imply  that  he  was  fast  nerving  him- 
self up  to  open  the  throttle;  the  man  on  the  platform  whistled  again 
to  cheer  him  on ;  a  heroic  squeal  came  from  the  cab  in  answer ;  and, 
with  a  jerk  that  sent  peasants,  baskets,  farm-tools,  lime-pails,  cab- 
bages, and  babies  into  a  conglomerate,  struggling  mass  at  the  back 
end  of  the  car,  we  were  off.  To  celebrate  which  auspicious  event  the 
engineer  emitted  a  final  shriek  and  gave  a  second  yank,  lest  some  sure- 
footed individual  had  by  any  chance  retained  his  equilibrium. 

By  the  time  some  semblance  of  order  had  been  restored,  unwieldy 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  23 

peasant  women  pulled  out  of  the  clawing  miscellany  and  stood  right 
end  up,  cabbages  and  babies  restored  to  their  proper  baskets,  pitch- 
forks and  smocks  disentangled,  the  next  station  was  reached  and 
A  sudden  stop  undid  all  our  efforts,  this  time  stacking  the  passengers 
at  the  front  end.  Some  minutes  after  the  train  had  come  to  a  stand- 
still, when  long-distance  travelers  had  lost  all  hope  of  relief  from 
the  sweltering  congestion,  the  countrymen  began  slowly  to  wander 
out  at  the  doors.  The  exodus  continued  until  there  remained  in  the 
car  only  those  few  through-passengers,  who,  utterly  cowed  and  sub- 
jugated, shrank  back  on  the  benches  to  escape  attention.  Then  the 
vanguard  of  another  multitude,  bound  for  a  village  some  three  miles 
distant,  made  its  appearance  and  history  repeated  itself. 

There  were  times,  too,  during  the  journey  when  the  villages  were 
apparently  too  far  apart  to  suit  the  engine-driver.  For  occasionally, 
soon  after  having  run  through  his  entire  repertoire  of  toots,  he 
suddenly,  remarkably  suddenly  in  fact,  brought  the  engine  to  a  halt 
in  the  open  country.  But  as  German  railway  laws  forbid  voyagers 
to  step  out,  crawl  out,  or  peep  out  of  the  car  under  such  circum- 
stances without  a  special  permit  from  the  guard,  countersigned  under 
seal  by  the  head-guard,  there  was  no  means  of  learning  whether  the 
engineer  had  lost  his  courage  or  merely  caught  sight  of  a  wild  flower 
that  particularly  took  his  fancy. 

Such  are  the  pleasures  of  a  fourth-class  excursion  in  Germany. 
Travelers  by  first-class,  it  is  said,  suffer  fewer  inconveniences,  but, 
however  varied  the  accommodations  may  be,  the  prices  are  more  so. 
At  every  booking-oflice  is  posted  a  placard  giving  the  cost  of  trans- 
portation to  every  other  town  in  the  Empire.  He  who  would  ride 
on  upholstered  seats  pays  a  bit  higher  rate  than  in  the  United  States. 
Second-class  costs  one-half,  third-class  one-fourth  as  much.  Three 
other  rates  are  quoted :  fourth-class,  soldiers'  tickets,  and  Hundekarten 
(dog  tickets).  The  German  conscript  pays  one-half  fourth-class  fare 
and  rides  in  a  third-class  carriage.  Hundekarten  cost  fourth-class 
fare.  Verily  it  is  better  in  Germany  to  be  a  soldier  than  a  dog  —  at 
least  while  traveling, 

I  arrived  at  Weimar  late  at  night.  A  stroll  to  Jena  the  follow- 
ing afternoon  led  through  a  pleasant  rural  district  well  known  to 
the  "  poet  pair  "  of  Germany  and  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon.  From 
Jena  I  turned  westward  again,  and,  braving  the  rigors  of  fourth-class 
travel  for  two  interminable  days,  descended  during  the  waning  hours 
of  July  at  the  city  of  Metz. 


24      A  VAGx\BOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

When  August  broke  in  the  east,  I  turned  pedestrian  once  more 
and  set  out  towards  Paris  on  the  Route  Nationale,  constructed  in 
the  days  when  Mayence  was  a  proud  French  city.  The  road  wound 
its  way  over  roUing  hills,  among  the  ravines  and  valleys  of  which  was 
fought  a  great  battle  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war.  For  miles  along 
the  way,  dotting  the  hillsides,  standing  singly  or  in  clusters  along 
lazy  brooks,  or  half-hidden  by  the  foliage  of  summer,  were  countless 
simple,  white  crosses,  bearing  only  the  brief  inscription  *'  Hier  ruhen 
Krieger-1870."  Beyond,  the  colossal  statue  of  a  soldier  of  past  decades 
pointed  away  across  a  deep-wooded  glen  to  the  vast  graveyard  of  his 
fallen  comrades. 

A  mile  further  on,  in  the  open  country,  out  of  sight  of  even  a 
peasant's  cottage,  two  iron  posts  at  the  wayside  marked  the  boundary 
established  by  the  treaty  of  Versailles.  A  farmer  with  his  mattock 
stood  in  Germany  grubbing  at  a  weed  that  grew  in  France. 

Mindful  of  the  lack  of  cordiality  that  exists  between  the  two 
countries,  I  anticipated  some  delay  at  the  frontier.  The  custom- 
house w^as  a  mere  cottage,  the  first  building  of  a  straggling  village 
some  miles  beyond  the  international  line.  A  mild-eyed  Frenchman, 
in  a  uniform  worn  shiny  across  the  shoulders  and  the  seat  of  the 
trousers,  wandered  out  into  the  highway  at  my  approach.  Behind 
him  strolled  a  second  officer.  But  the  difficulties  I  had  expected  were 
existent  only  in  my  own  imagination.  The  pair  cried  out  in  surprise 
at  mention  of  my  nationality;  they  grew  garrulous  at  the  announce- 
ment that  I  was  bound  to  Paris  a  pied.  But  their  only  official  act  was 
to  inspect  my  bundle,  and  I  pressed  on  amid  their  cries  of  "  bon 
voyage." 

The  highways  of  France  are  broad  and  shaded,  her  innkeepers 
neither  exclusive  nor  intrusive ;  yet  even  here  pedestrianism  has  its 
drawbacks.  Chief  among  them  are  the  railway  crossings.  The  French 
system  of  protection  against  accidents  is  eflFective,  no  doubt ;  but  if 
monsieur  the  Frenchman  were  as  impatient  a  being  as  the  American  the 
mortality  would  be  little  lessened,  for  the  delay  involved  at  these 
traverses  du  chemin  de  fer  would  choke  with  rising  choler  as  many 
as  might  come  to  grief  at  an  unprotected  crossing. 

On  either  side  of  the  track  is  a  ponderous  harriere,  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  which  would  be  slow  under  the  best  of  circum- 
«5tances.  Being  always  tended  by  a  colossal  barrieriere  (gate-woman) 
who  moves  with  the  stately  grace  of  a  house  being  raised  on  jack- 
screws,  the  barricade  is  unduly  effective.     Ten  minutes  before  a  train 


PRELIMINARY  RAMBLES  25 

is  due,  la  harricricre  hoists  herself  erect,  waddles  across  the  track  to 
draw  the  further  gate,  closes  the  nearer  one,  and,  having  locked 
both,  returns  to  the  shade  of  her  cottage.  The  train  may  be  an  hour 
late,  but  that  is  beside  the  question.  This  is  the  time  that  Madame  is 
hired  to  lock  the  gates  and  locked  they  must  remain  until  the  train 
has  passed.  Woe  betide  the  intrepid  voyager  who  tries  to  climb  over 
them,  for  her  tongue  is  sharp  and  the  long  arm  of  the  law  is  arrayed 
on  her  side. 

Plodding  early  and  late,  I  covered  the  round-about  route  through 
Chalons,  Rheims,  and  Meaux,  and  reached  Paris  a  few  days  after 
crossing  the  frontier.  A  month  of  tramping  had  made  me  as  pictur- 
esque a  figure  as  any  hoidevardier  of  Montmartre ;  moreover,  August 
in  the  French  capital  was  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  to  dis- 
play garments  chosen  with  the  winds  of  the  Scottish  Highlands  in 
mind.  I  picked  up  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Denis,  at  a  gross  expenditure 
of  fifteen  francs,  an  outfit  more  in  keeping  with  the  weather,  took 
up  my  abode  in  a  garret  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  roamed  at  large  in 
the  city  for  three  weeks. 


€ 


CHAPTER  II 

ON    THE    ROAD    IN    FRANCE    AND    SWITZERLAND 

THE  month  of  August  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  I  swung 
my  wardrobe  of  the  city  over  a  shoulder  and,  wandering 
down  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  struck  off  to  the  south- 
ward. A  succession  of  noisy,  squalid  villages,  such  as  surround 
most  cities  of  the  old  world,  lined  the  way  to  Melun.  Beyond, 
tramping  was  more  pleasant,  for  the  route  swung  off  across  a  rolling 
country,'  unadorned  with  squalling  urchins  and  mongrel  curs,  towards 
Fontainebleau.  The  foot-traveler  in  France  need  have  no  fear  of 
losing  his  way.  From  Paris  to  the  important  cities  and  frontier 
towns  radiate  "  Routes  nationales,"  each  known  by  a  certain  number 
throughout  its  length.  Signboards  point  the  way  at  every  cross- 
road ;  kilometer  posts  of  white  stone  keep  the  wayfarer  well  informed 
of  the  progress  he  is  making  —  almost  too  well,  for  when  he  has 
grown  foot-sore  and  ill-tempered,  each  one  greets  him  with  a  sar- 
donic smile  that  says  as  plainly  as  words,  "  Huh !  You  're  only  a  kilo- 
meter further  on,  and  a  kilometer  is  not  a  mile  by  a  long  way." 

They  are  excellently  built,  these  national  highways;  the  heaviest 
rain  barely  forms  upon  them  a  perceptible  layer  of  mud.  But  one 
could  pardon  them  a  little  unevenness  of  road-bed  if  only  they  would 
strike  out  for  their  goal  with  the  dogged  determination  of  our  own 
axle-cracking  turnpikes.  They  wind  and  ramble  like  mountain 
streams.  They  zigzag  from  village  to  village  even  in  a  level  country. 
The  least  knoll  seems  to  have  been  sufficient  reason  in  the  minds  of 
the  constructing  engineers  for  making  wide  detours,  and  where  hills 
abound,  there  are  villages  ten  miles  apart  with  twenty  miles  of  tramp- 
ing between  them. 

Thus  far  I  had  tramped  the  highways  of  Europe  alone.  Beyond 
Nemours,  my  second  night's  resting-place,  I  came  upon  two  wayfarers 
in  the  shelter  of  a  giant  oak,  enjoying  a  regal  repast  of  hard  bread 
which  they  rendered  more  palatable  by  dipping  each  mouthful  in  a 
brook  at  their  feet.     On  the  plea  of  an  ample  breakfast  I  declined 

26 


IN  FRANCE  AND  S^' 

an  invitation  to  share  the   feast, 

passed  on  in  company.     The  p"' 

Normandy  to  the  great  co^' 

free-masonry  of  "  the  ro- 

before  the  first  kilorr 

ing  confidences  i^ 

vocabulary  th*" 

not  only  a^ 

wayfarp 

in  my 

our  " 


EY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Saxon.     To  the  French  gendarme 
"^at  he  is  a  miserable  sans-sous 
St  be  strictly  appHed. 

books  and  handed  them 


'f  the   French 

*  '•troduction 

'he  gen- 

a  per- 

l   of 

'n- 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  29 

"  L'Amerique !  And  being  in  America  you  come  to  France  ?  Oh, 
mon  Dieu,  what  idiocy !  "  and  waving  his  arms  above  his  head  he  fled 
for  the  shade  of  his  office. 

The  ways  of  my  companions  would  have  made  them  the  laughing- 
stock of  American  roadsters.  They  looked  forward  to  no  three  meals 
a  day.  The  hope  of  a  "  set-down  "  never  intruded  upon  their  field  of 
vision.  In  fact,  they  considered  that  the  world  was  going  very  well 
with  them  if  they  collected  sous  enough  for  one  or  two  lunches  of 
bread  and  wine  daily.  Yet  wine  they  would  have,  except  for  break- 
fast, or  they  refused  to  eat  even  bread.  Like  almost  all  who  tramp 
any  distance  in  France,  they  "  played  the  merchant "  and  were  sur- 
prised to  find  that  I  ventured  along  the  highways  of  their  country 
without  doing  likewise.  That  is,  they  carried  over  one  shoulder  a 
bundle  containing  shoe-strings,  thread,  needles,  thimbles,  and  other 
articles  in  demand  among  rural  housewives.  The  demand  was  really 
very  light.  They  did  make  a  two  or  three-sous  sale  here  and  there, 
but  the  market  value  of  their  wares  was  of  least  importance.  By 
carrying  them,  the  miners  evaded  the  strict  laws  against  vagrancy. 
Without  the  bundles  they  were  beggars,  with  them  they  ranked  as  ped- 
dlers. The  ruse  deceived  no  one,  not  even  the  gendarme.  But  it 
satisfied  the  letter  of  the  law. 

Still  engrossed  in  discussing  the  character  of  the  officer  who 
had  delayed  us,  we  reached  a  large  farmhouse.  With  one  of  the 
miners  I  lingered  at  the  roadside.  The  other  entered  the  dwelling, 
ostensibly  to  display  his  wares.  A  moment  later  he  emerged  with 
a  half-loaf  of  coarse  peasant's  bread.  Madame  had  needed  nothing 
from  his  pack,  but  "  she  made  me  a  present  of  this  lump." 

It  was  while  they  were  canvassing  a  village  in  quest  of  sales,  or 
crusts,  in  the  dusk  of  evening  that  I  lost  sight  of  the  miners.  I  had 
passed  the  village  inn,  and,  being  always  averse  to  retracing  my  steps, 
continued  my  way  alone.  Had  I  suspected  the  distance  to  the  next 
hamlet,  I  might  have  been  less  eager  to  press  on.  Fully  three  hours 
later  I  stumbled  into  Les  Bussieres  and,  having  walked  sixty-nine 
kilometers,  it  was  not  strange  that  I  slept  late  next  morning.  Be- 
sides, the  day  was  Sunday,  and  what  with  satisfying  the  curiosity 
of  a  company  of  peasants  in  the  wine-room  and  drinking  the  health 
of  several  of  them,  I  did  not  set  out  until  the  day  was  well  advanced. 
Beyond  the  village  stretched  the  broad,  white  route,  endless  and  de- 
serted.    The  long  journey  before  me  would  have  been  less  lonely  in 


30      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  company  of  the  miners;  but  we  had  parted  and  I  plodded  on  in 
solitude,  wondering  when  I  should  again  fall  in  with  so  cheery  a 
pair. 

In  passing  a  clump  of  trees  at  the  roadside,  I  was  suddenly  roused 
from  my  revery  by  a  shotit  of  "  Hola !  L'americain ! "  What  could 
have  betrayed  my  nationality?  I  halted  and  stared  about  me.  My 
eyes  fell  on  the  grove  and  I  beheld  my  companions  of  the  day  before 
hastily  gathering  their  possessions  together. 

We  journeyed  along  as  before,  producing  our  papers  at  each  vil- 
lage and  being  once  stopped  in  the  open  country  by  a  mounted  gen- 
darme. The  miners  played  in  poor  luck  all  through  the  morning.  A 
single  sou  and  an  aged  quarter-loaf  constituted  their  gleanings. 
Gaunt  hunger  was  depicted  on  their  countenances  before  we  reached 
Briare  in  the  early  afternoon  and,  breaking  the  silence  of  an  hour,  I 
offered  to  stand  the  compte  of  a  meal  for  three. 

There  was  in  Briare,  as  in  every  town  in  France  larger  than  a 
hamlet,  an  inn  the  proprietor  of  which  catered  to  the  vagabond  class. 
None  but  a  native  tramp  could  have  found  the  establishment  without 
repeated  inquiries;  but  the  miners,  needing  no  second  invitation  and 
guided  by  some  peculiar  instinct,  led  the  way  down  a  side  street  and 
into  a  squalid  cul  de  sac.  The  most  acute  foreign  eye  would  have 
seen  only  frowning  back  walls,  but  my  companions  pushed  open  the 
door  of  what  looked  like  a  deserted  warehouse  and  we  entered  a 
low  room,  gloomy  and  unswept.  Around  the  table,  to  which  we  made 
our  way  through  a  very  forest  of  huge  wine-barrels,  were  gathered  a 
dozen  peasants  and  a  less  solemn  pair  who  turned  out  to  be  of  "the 
profession." 

The  first  greetings  over,  the  keeper  set  out  before  us  a  loaf  of 
coarse  bread  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  demanded  immediate  payment, 
and  having  received  it,  resumed  his  seat  on  a  barrel.  His  shop  was, 
in  reality,  the  wine  cellar  of  a  cafe  the  gilded  fagade  of  which  faced 
the  main  street.  In  it  the  liquor  that  sold  here  for  four  sous  the  litre 
would  have  cost  us  a  half-franc.  One  of  the  miners,  having  gained 
my  consent  to  the  extravagance,  invested  two  sous  in  raw,  salt  pork 
which  he  and  his  companion  ate  with  great  relish.  I  was  content  to 
do  without  such  delicacies,  for  the  wine  and  bread  made  a  very 
appetizing  feast  after  hours  of  trudging  under  a  broiling  sun. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  I  photographed  the  miners,  a  pro- 
ceeding which  caused  them  infantine  delight,  both  declaring  that  this 
was  the  first  time  in  their  begrimed  existence  that  they  had  ever 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  31 

been  tires.  We  found  lodging  in  a  peasant's  wheat  stack.  I  was  a 
bit  chary  of  spending  the  night  in  so  deserted  a  spot  with  two  such 
vagabonds,  for  the  kodak  and  the  handful  of  coins  from  which  I  had 
paid  for  our  dinner  was  a  plunder  worth  a  roadster's  conspiracy. 
My  anxiety  was  really  ungrounded.  Morning  broke  with  my  posses- 
sions intact  and,  after  an  hour's  work  in  picking  straw  and  chaff 
from  our  hair  and  clothing,  we  set  off  at  sunrise. 

I  left  my  companions  behind  soon  after,  for  their  mode  of  travel 
resulted  in  far  less  than  the  thirty  miles  a  day  I  had  cut  out  for 
myself,  and  passed  on  into  the  vineyard  and  forest  country  of  Nievre. 
Harvest  was  over  in  the  few  fertile  farms  that  were  not  given  up  to 
the  culture  of  the  grape;  the  day  of  the  gleaners  had  come.  In  the 
fields  left  bare  by  the  reapers,  peasant  women  gathered  with  infinite 
care  the  stray  wheat  stalks  and,  their  aprons  full,  plodded  homeward. 
To  the  thrifty  French  mind  there  is  nothing  so  iniquitous  as  to 
waste  the  smallest  thing  of  value.  Before  this  army  of  bowed  backs 
one  could  not  but  wonder  whether  it  had  ever  occurred  to  them  that 
labor  also  may  be  wasted. 

The  most  extravagant  of  its  inhabitants  were  already  lighting  their 
lamps  when  I  entered  the  village  of  La  Charite.  To  whatever  benevo- 
lence the  quiet  hamlet  owes  its  name,  it  was  typical  of  those  rural  com- 
munities that  line  the  highways  of  France.  A  decrepit  grey  church 
raised  a  time-mellowed  voice  in  the  song  of  the  evening  angelus. 
Squat  housewives  gossiped  at  the  doors  of  the  drab  stone  cottages 
lining  the  route.  From  the  neighboring  fields  heavy  ox-carts,  the 
yokes  fastened  across  the  horns  of  the  animals,  lumbered  homeward. 
In  the  dwindling  light  a  blacksmith  before  his  open  shop  was  fitting 
with  flat,  iron  shoes  a  piebald  ox  triced  up  on  his  back  in  a  frame. 

In  lieu  of  the  familiar  sign,  Ici  on  loge  a  pied  et  a  cheval,  the  vil- 
lage inn  was  distinguished  from  the  private  dwellings  by  a  bundle 
of  dried  fagots  over  the  door.  I  entered,  to  find  myself  in  a  room 
well-stocked  with  wooden  tables,  with  here  and  there  a  trio  of  vil- 
lagers, over  their  wine  and  cards,  blowing  smoke  at  the  unhewn  beams 
of  the  ceiling.  In  answer  to  the  customary  signal,  the  tapping  of 
pipes  on  the  tables,  an  elderly  woman  appeared  and  inquired  bruskly 
wherein  she  could  serve  me. 

"  You  have  lodgings,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  " 

A  sudden,  startling  silence  greeted  the  first  suggestion  of  foreign 
accent.  Cards  paused  in  mid-air,  pipes  ceased  to  draw,  tipplers  craned 
their  necks  to  listen,  and  madame  surveyed  me  deliberately,  even  a 


32      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

bit  disdainfully,  from  crown  to  toe.  Satisfied  evidently,  with  her  in 
spection,  she  admitted  that  she  had  been  known  to  house  travelers 
and  hurried  away  to  bring  the  register,  while  the  smoking  and  the 
drinking  and  the  playing  were  slowly  and  half-heartedly  resumed. 
Madame  scrutinized  intently  each  stroke  of  the  coarse  pen  as  I  filled 
in  the  various  blanks,  puzzled  several  moments  over  my  "  passport," 
and  dropping  all  her  stiff  dignity,  became  suddenly  garrulous: 

"  What !  You  are  an  American  ?  Why,  another  American  has 
lodged  here.  It  was  in  1882.  He  was  making  the  tour  of  the  world 
on  a  bicycle.  He  came  from  Boston  " —  she  pronounced  it  with  a 
distressing  nasal  — **  but  I  could  not  understand  his  French.  He  did 
not  pronounce  the  R.  He  said  *  fonce '  when  he  meant  '  frangais.' 
for  '  terra '  he  said  '  teah.'  I  will  give  you  his  bed.  He  had  not 
many  hairs  on  his  head.  Do  you  eat  ragout  also  in  America?  He 
wore  such  funny  pince-nez.  Fine  wine,  n'est-ce  pas?  He  had  hurt 
his  foot — "  and  thus  she  chattered  on,  through  my  supper  and  up  the 
stairs  to  my  chamber. 

The  room  once  graced  by  the  man  from  Boston  was  stone-floored, 
with  whitewashed  walls,  and  large  enough  to  have  housed  a  squad 
of  infantry.  Of  its  two  beds,  hung  with  snow-white  curtains,  I  pre- 
ferred the  one  nearer  the  window.  Unfortunately,  my  compatriot  of 
the  pince-nez  had  chosen  the  other  and  madame  would  not  hear  of 
my  violating  the  precedent  thus  established.  The  price  of  this  lodging, 
and  the  usual  one  in  the  rural  inns  of  France,  was  fifteen  cents. 

There  were  times  when  my  zealous  efforts  to  spend  for  lodging 
as  few  sous  as  possible  brought  me  to  temporary  grief.  The  night 
following  my  sojourn  in  La  Charite  is  a  case  in  point.  I  reached  St. 
Pierre  le  Moutier  some  time  after  dark,  and,  upon  inquiry  for  the 
cheapest  auberge,  was  directed  up  a  dismal  alleyway.  On  the  fringe 
of  the  open  country  I  stumbled  upon  a  ramshackle  stone  building,  one 
end  of  which  was  a  dwelling  for  man,  while  the  other  housed  his  do- 
mestic animals.  Inside,  under  a  sputtering  excuse  for  a  lamp,  huddled 
two  men,  a  woman  and  a  girl,  around  a  table  that  canted  up  against  the 
wall  as  if  it  had  borne  too  much  wine  in  its  long  existence  and  be- 
come chronically  unsteady  on  its  legs  thereby.  So  preoccupied  was 
the  quartet  in  devouring  slabs  of  dull-brown  bread  and  a  w^atery 
soup  from  a  common  bowl  in  which  floated  a  few  stray  cabbage- 
leaves  that  my  entrance  passed  unnoticed. 

Advancing  to  attract  attention  I  brought  disaster.  For  in  the  semi- 
darkness  I  stepped  on  the  end  of  a  board  that  supported  two  legs  of 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  33 

the  tipsy  table,  causing  the  bowl  of  soup  to  slide  into  the  woman's 
arms,  and  the  loaf  to  roll  about  on  the  earth  floor.  The  mishap,  evi- 
dently no  new  experience,  aroused  no  comment,  but  it  gained  me  a 
hearing  and  brought  me  into  the  conversation.  Of  the  two  men,  one 
was  the  proprietor  and  the  second  a  traveler  of  the  tramp  variety 
who,  though  posing  as  a  Parisian,  spoke  a  decidedly  mongrel  language. 
With  the  fluency  of  a  stranded  tragedian  he  launched  forth  in  a  raging 
narration  of  his  misfortunes.  French  at  all  resembling  the  educated 
tongue  had  become  as  familiar  to  me  as  English,  but  the  patois  and 
slang  in  which  the  fellow  unfolded  the  story  of  a  persecuted  life 
would  have  daunted  an  international  interpreter.  I  caught  the  drift 
of  his  remarks  by  making  him  repeat  each  sentence  twice  or  thrice, 
but  he  ended  with  a:  "Heing!  Tu  comprinds  ma'reux  le  f ringais ;" 
and  I  was  forced  to  admit  that  if  the  jargon  he  got  off  were  "  frin- 
gais,"  I  certainly  did. 

The  younger,  and  consequently  less  begrimed  of  the  females,  led 
the  way  to  my  "  room,"  which  turned  out  to  be  a  hole  over  the  stable, 
some  four  feet  high,  approached  by  an  outside  stairway,  and  con- 
taining two  of  the  filthiest  cots  a  vivid  imagination  could  have  pic- 
tured. To  my  disgust  I  found  that  one  of  the  beds  was  reserved  for 
my  friend  of  the  uncouth  tongue.  A  half-hour  later,  unstable  after 
a  final  bottle  of  wine  with  the  aubergiste,  he  stumbled  into  the  den 
and  proceeded  to  make  night  hideous  —  awake,  by  his  multiloquence, 
asleep,  by  a  rasping  snore.  A  dozen  times  I  awoke  from  a  half-con- 
scious nap  to  find  him  sitting  cross-legged  in  his  cot,  puffing  furiously 
at  a  cigarette,  above  the  feeble  glow  of  which  glistened  his  cat-like 
eyes  as  he  stared  at  me  across  the  intervening  darkness.  At  daybreak 
he  was  gone  and  I  departed  soon  after. 

There  is  really  no  reason  why  the  French  roadster  should  go  hungry 
in  autumn.  That  he  does,  is  due  to  a  strange  national  prejudice  un- 
known in  America;  for  at  that  season  half  the  highways  of  France 
are  lined  with  hedges  heavy  with  blackberries.  At  first  I  looked  with 
suspicion  on  a  fruit  left  ungathered  by  the  thrifty  peasantry,  but,  com- 
ing one  morning  upon  a  hedge  unusually  burdened  with  berries,  I  satis- 
fied myself  as  to  their  identity  and  fell  to  picking  a  capful.  A  band  of 
peasants,  on  the  way  to  the  fields,  halted  to  gaze  at  me  in  astonish- 
ment and  burst  into  uproarious  laughter. 

"  Mais,  mon  vieux,"  cried  a  plowman.  "  Que  diable  vas  tu  faire 
de  ces  choses-la?  " 

"  Eat  them,  of  course,"  I  answered. 
3 


34      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Eat  them !  "  roared  the  peasants,  '*  but  those  things  are  not  good 
to  eat,"  and  the  notion  struck  them  as  so  droll  that  their  guffaws  still 
came  back  to  me  long  after  they  had  turned  a  bend  in  the  highway. 
Every  Frenchman  I  approached  on  the  subject  held  the  same  view. 
The  two  miners  traveled  for  hours  with  a  gnawing  hunger,  or  invaded 
lonely  vineyards  at  imminent  risk  of  capture  by  the  rural  gendarmerie, 
to  eat  their  fill  of  half-ripe  grapes,  sour  and  acrid.  But  when  I,  from 
my  safe  position  outside  the  hedge,  held  up  a  heavily-laden  bush,  their 
answer  was  always  the  same :  "  Ah,  non,  mon  vieux.  Not  any  for 
me."  Obviously  I  could  not  regret  the  bad  repute  in  which  the  fruit 
was  held,  for  when  hunger  overtook  me  I  had  but  to  stop  and  pick 
my  dinner,  and  except  for  the  few  sous  spent  for  bread  and  wine,  my 
rations  from  Fontainebleau  to  the  Swiss  frontier  cost  me  nothing. 

My  tramp  continued  past  Nevers  and  Moulin,  down  through  the  de- 
partment of  Allier  to  the  city  of  Roanne,  stretching  along  both  banks 
of  the  upper  Loire.  A  few  kilometers  beyond,  the  highway  began  a 
winding  ascent  of  the  first  foot-hills  of  the  Alps.  Even  here  the  culti- 
vation bespoke  the  thrift  of  the  French  peasant.  Far  up  the  rugged 
hillside  stretched  terraced  farms,  each  stone-faced  step  of  the  broad 
stairways  thickly  set  with  grapevines.  Higher  still  a  few  wrinkled 
patches  in  sheltered  ravines  gave  sustenance  to  the  most  sturdy  toilers. 
Here  it  is  that  may  be  seen  the  nearest  prototype  of  that  painful  figure 
known  far  and  wide,  that  stolid  being  who  leans  on  his  mattock,  gazing 
helplessly  away  into  meaningless  space;  nearest,  because  his  exact 
original  no  longer  dwells  in  the  fields  of  France ;  he  has  moved  south- 
ward. Down  a  glen  below  the  highway  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  broken 
off  some  six  feet  above  the  ground  and  with  a  huge  knot  on  one  side, 
stood  out  in  silhouette  against  the  distant  horizon.  But  for  a  crude- 
ness  of  outline  one  might  have  imagined  the  stump  a  clumsy,  ragged 
peasant,  with  a  child  astride  his  shoulders.  I  stood  surveying  this 
figure,  wondering  what  forces  of  the  elements  could  have  given  a 
mere  tree  so  strange  a  likeness  to  a  human  form,  when  it  suddenly 
started,  moved,  and  strode  away  across  the  gully. 

The   highway  continued   to   climb.     The  patches   of  tilled   ground 
gave  way  to  waving  forests  where  sounded  the  twittering  of  birds,  and 
here  and  there  the  cheery  song  of  the  woodsman  or  shepherd  boy. 
Some  magic  there  is  inherent  in  the  clear  air  of  mountain  heights  tha 
calls  forth  song  from  those  that  dwell  among  them. 

With  sunset  came  the  summit.  The  road  began  to  descend,  the 
forests  fell  away,  the  tiny  fields  appeared  once  more,  and  the  ballad 


A  typical  French  roadster  who  has  tramped  the  highways  of  Europe  for  thirty  years 


The  two  French  miners  with  whom   I  tramped  in  France. 
Notice  shoe-laces  carried  for  sale 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  35 

of  the  mountaineer  was  silent.  A  colony  of  laborers,  engaged  in  the 
construction  of  a  reservoir,  gave  me  greeting  from  the  doors  of  their 
temporary  shacks,  and  lov^er  still  I  turned  in  at  an  auberge  half-filled 
with  a  squad  of  soldiers. 

He  is  an  interesting  figure,  the  French  conscript.  In  his  makeup 
is  none  of  the  boisterous  braggadocio  of  the  American  trooper  and 
of  Tommy  Atkins,  never  that  scorn  for  civilians  so  often  characteristic 
of  the  voluntary,  the  mercenary  soldier.  He  feels  small  inclination  to 
boast  of  his  wisdom  even  in  military  matters,  for  well  he  knows  that  the 
jolly  innkeeper  may  be  able  to  tell  a  tale  of  his  own  days  sous  le  drapeau 
that  makes  the  conscript's  favorite  story  weak  and  insipid  by  com- 
parison. Then,  too,  it  is  hard  to  be  boastful  when  one  is  sad  at  heart ; 
and  the  French  conscript  is  not  happy.  To  him  conscription  is  a  yoke, 
akin  to  disease  and  death,  which  fate  has  fastened  upon  the  children  of 
men.  He  dreads  its  coming,  serves  under  unexpressed  protest,  and 
sets  it  down  in  his  book  of  life  as  three  years  utterly  lost. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  note  of  pessimism  everywhere  prevalent  among 
the  masses  of  France.  It  is  not  a  universal  note,  not  even  a  constant 
one :  loud-voiced  "  calamity-howlers  "  are  less  in  evidence  than  in  our 
own  optimistic  land.  But  even  amid  the  merry  chatter  there  hovers 
over  every  gathering  of  French  workmen  a  gloominess,  an  infestivity 
that  speaks  of  lost  hope,  of  fatalistic  despair.  Briefly  and  uncon- 
sciously, a  craftsman  of  chance  acquaintance  summed  up  this  inner 
feeling  of  his  class :  *'  Ah,  mon  pauvre  pays,"  he  sighed,  "  elle  n'est 
plus  ce  qu'elle  etait." 

Chattering  groups  of  Lyonese,  mounting  to  the  freer  air  of  the  hills 
in  Sunday  attire,  enlivened  my  morning  tramp  down  the  descending 
highway.  By  early  afternoon  I  came  in  sight  of  the  second  city  of 
France  and  the  confluence  of  the  Soane  and  Rhone.  The  vineyards 
ceased,  to  give  place  to  mulberry  trees.  Even  on  this  day  of  merry- 
making the  whir  of  silk-looms  sounded  from  the  wayside  cottages, 
well  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city.  The  humble  dwellings  were  suc- 
ceeded by  mansions ;  the  national  highway,  by  a  broad  boulevard  that 
led  down  to  the  meeting-place  of  the  two  rivers,  and  the  first  stage 
of  my  journey  to  southern  Europe  was  ended. 

From  Lyon  I  turned  northeastward  towards  Geneva  and  the  Alps. 

A   serpentine   route   climbed   upward.     Often   I   tramped    for  hours 

^  around  the  edge  of  a  yawning  chasm,  having  always  in  view  a  rugged 

village  and  its  vineyards  far  below,  only  to  find  myself  at  the  end  of 

that  time   within   stone's   throw   of   a  long- forgotten   kilometer-post. 


36      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Near  the  frontier  hovered  a  general  air  of  suspicion.  The  aubergiste 
of  the  mountain  hamlet  of  Moulin  Chabaud  hesitated  long  and  studied 
every  dot  and  letter  of  my  papers  before  offering  me  a  chair  under  the 
big  fireplace ;  he  remained  surly  and  distraught  all  through  the  evening, 
as  if  convinced  in  spite  of  himself  that  he  v^^as  harboring  one  whose 
career  had  not  been  unsullied.  When  I  av^oke,  a  mountain  rain  was 
falling,  cold  and  ceaseless;  but  preferring  always  a  certain  amount 
of  physical  discomfort  to  soux  looks,  I  pushed  on,  splashing  into 
Geneva  long  after  nightfall. 

It  would  doubtless  require  a  frequent  repetition  of  such  experiences 
to  stifle  that  indefinable  dread,  akin  to  fear,  which  oppresses  the  weary 
pedestrian  who,  entirely  unbefriended,  enters  an  unknown  city  in  the 
darkness  of  night.  Limping  aimlessly  through  the  streets  of  Geneva 
in  my  water-soaked  garments,  I  felt  particularly  dismal  and  forlorn. 
Genevese,  huddled  under  their  umbrellas,  pushed  me  aside  when  I  at- 
tempted to  speak  to  them  or  snapped  a  few  incoherent  words  over 
their  shoulders.  In  vain  I  attempted  to  escape  from  the  district  of 
jewellers'  shops  and  watch-makers'  show-windows,  little  suspecting 
that  I  was  virtually  on  an  island  given  over  almost  entirely  to  business 
houses  and  rich  dwellings. 

A  slippery  street  led  to  a  bridge  across  the  Rhone,  and  a  policeman 
beyond  pointed  out  the  district  gendarmerie  as  the  proper  place  to 
prosecute  my  inquiries.  From  a  window  of  the  building  shown  a 
dim  light,  and  within  sounded  a  brisk  "  entrez  "  in  answer  to  my  knock. 
Two  police  sergeants,  engrossed  in  a  game  of  cards,  turned  to  scowl 
at  me  across  the  room. 

"  Eh  bien,  toi !     Qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a?  " 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  lodging  house  and  the  policeman  — " 

"  Lodging !  At  this  time  of  night  ?  Do  you  think  the  city  provides 
a  hotel  de  luxe  for  vagabonds,  that  they  may  come '  and  go  at  any 
hour—?" 

"  But  I  intend  to  pay  my  own  lodging." 

"  Pay !     Quoi !     Tu  as  de  I'argent  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  have  money ! "  I  cried  indignantly,  though  to  tell  the 
truth  the  weight  of  it  was  not  making  me  stoop-shouldered. 

"  Ah !  "  gasped  the  senior  officer,  speaking  the  word  high  up  in  his 
mouth  after  the  fashion  of  Frenchmen  expressing  supreme  astonish- 
ment. "Que  je  vous  aie  mal  juge!  I  thought  you  were  iskliig  ad- 
mittance to  the  night  shelter." 

The  shock  of  hearing  one  he  had  taken  for  a  vagabond  lat 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  37 

he  had  money  was  clearly  a  unique  experience  in  the  sergeant's  con- 
stabulary career.  He  had  by  no  means  recovered  when  I  turned  away 
to  the  inn  he  had  pointed  out. 

Three  days  later  I  boarded  a  steamer  that  zigzagged  between  the 
cities  flanking  blue  Lac  Leman,  and  descending  at  Villeneuve,  set  out 
along  the  valley  of  the  upper  Rhone.  Here  all  was  free  and  open  as 
the  mountains  bordering-  the  fertile  strip,  for  the  close-hedged  fields 
of  France  are  not  to  the  taste  of  the  Swiss  peasant.  No  gendarme 
waylaid  me  at  each  hamlet;  I  had  but  to  step  off  the  highway  to 
gather  apples  under  the  trees  or  to  escape  from  the  glaring  sun. 

Night  overtook  me  at  St.  Maurice,  a  sure-footed  mountain  village, 
straddling  the  Rhone  where  it  roars  through  a  narrow  gorge  on  its 
way  to  the  lake  beyond.  Even  within  doors  the  villagers  speak  a 
high-pitched  treble,  so  fixed  has  become  the  habit  of  raising  their 
voices  above  the  constant  boom  of  the  cataract.  In  my  lodging  di- 
rectly above,  the  roaring  intruded  on  my  dreams,  and  in  fancy  I 
struggled  against  the  rushing  current  that  carried  .me  down  a  sheer 
mountainside. 

Church-bound  peasants  fell  in  with  me  along  the  route  next  morning, 
peasants  lacking  both  the  noisy  gaiety  of  the  French  and  the  gloomi- 
ness of  the  Sunday-clad  German.  Wayside  wine-shops,  or  a  pace 
too  rapid  for  a  day  of  rest  cut  short  my  acquaintance  with  each  group, 
but  I  had  not  far  to  plod  alone  before  the  curiosity  of  a  new  band 
gave  me  companionship  for  another  space. 

At  Martigny  the  highway  bent  with  the  river  to  the  eastward;  the 
mountain  wall  crowded  more  closely  the  narrow  valley,  pushing  the 
road  to  the  edge  of  the  stream  that  mirrored  the  rugged  peaks.  Here 
and  tj;iere  a  foot-hill  boldly  detached  itself  from  the  range,  and  taking 
its  stand  in  the  valley,  drove  ofif  the  route  on  a  winding  detour. 

Two  such  hills  gave  Sion  a  form  all  its  own.  An  ample  Paradplatz 
in  the  foreground  held  back  the  jumble  of  houses  tossed  upon  an  un- 
dulating hillside.  Back  of  the  village,  like  gaunt  sentinels  guarding  the 
valley  of  the  upper  Rhone,  stood  two  towering  rocks,  the  one  crowned 
by  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle,  the  other  by  a  crumbling  church  that 
gazed  scornfully  down  on  the  jostling  buildings  of  modern  times.  A 
Sunday  festival  was  raging  on  the  parade-ground.  Around  the  booths 
and  puppet-shows  surged  merry  countrymen  in  gay  attire ;  from  the 
flanking  shops  hung  streamers  and  the  flags  of  many  nations. 

I  had  barely  reached  the  town  when  a  rumble  of  thunder  sounded. 
Dense,  black  clouds,  flying  before  a  wind  that  did  not  reach  us  in  the 


38      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

valley,  appeared  from  the  north,  tearing  themselves  on  the  jagged 
peaks  above.  Close  on  the  heels  of  the  warning  a  storm  broke  in  true 
Alpine  fury.  The  festooned  multitude  broke  madly  for  the  shelter  of 
the  shops,  the  gaudy  streamers  and  booths  turned  to  drooping  rags, 
the  puppets  humped  their  shoulders  appealingly,  and  the  parade-ground 
became  a  shallow  lake  that  reflected  a  bright  sun  ten  minutes  after  the 
first  growl  of  thunder. 

The  oppressive  heat  tempered  by  the  shower,  I  rounded  the  greater 
of  the  sentinel  rocks  and  continued  up  the  valley.  Rolling  vineyards 
stretched  away  on  either  hand  to  the  brink  of  the  river  or  the  base  of 
the  enclosing  mountains.  A  burning  thirst  assailed  me.  Almost  un- 
consciously I  paused  and  picked  two  clusters  of  plump  grapes  that 
hung  over  the  stone  coping  of  a  field  above  the  highway. 

A  stone's  throw  ahead,  two  men  stepped  suddenly  from  behind  a 
clump  of  bushes  and  strolled  towards  me. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  is?"  demanded  one  of  them,  in  French, 
as  he  waved  a  small  badge  before  my-  eyes. 

I  certainly  did.     It  was  the  official  shiteld  of  the  rural  gendarmerie. 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted. 

"  Back  you  go  with  us  to  Sion !  "  roared  the  officer.  He  was  a  lean, 
lank  giant  who,  evidently  in  virtue  of  his  length,  assumed  the  position 
of  spokesman.  His  companion,  almost  a  dwarf,  nodded  his  head 
vigorously  in  approval. 

"  Eh  bien  ?  "  I  answered,  too  weary  to  argue  the  matter. 

"  Yes,"  blustered  the  spokesman,  "  back  to  Sion  and  the  magistrate 
— "  he  paused,  squinted  at  the  dwarf,  and  went  on  in  dulcet  tones,  "  un- 
less you  pay  thirty  francs." 

"Thirty  francs!     Where  on  earth  should  I  get  thirty  franos?" 

In  my  excitement  I  somewhat  bungled  my  French. 

"  Where  go  you  ?  "  asked  the  pocket  edition  of  the  law.  His  voice 
was  soothing  and  he  spoke  in  German. 

"  To  Italy.     I  am  a  workman." 

"  Ja !  Und  in  deinem  Lande  —  in  your  land  you  may  pick  grapes 
when  you  like,  was?"  shouted  the  long  one. 

"A  couple  of  bunches?    Of  course!" 

"  Was!  In  Italien?"  In  his  voice  was  all  the  sarcasm  he  could 
call  up  from  a  tolerably  caustic  nature. 

"  I  am  no  Italian.     I  come  from  the  United  States." 

"  United  States !  "  bellowed  the  gendarme,  looking  around  at  his  com- 
panion.    "What  is  this  United  States?" 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  39 

"Ah-er-well,    there    is    such    a    country,"    suggested    the    midget, 

"but—" 

"  And  in  this  country  of  yours  you  do  not  speak  French,  nor  Ger- 
man, nor  yet  Italian?"  snapped  the  officer,  relapsing  unconsciously 
into  French. 

"  No,  we  speak  English." 

"Mille  diables!     EngHsh!     What  then  is  that?" 

"Ja.     Es  gibt  so  eine  Sprache,"  ventured  the  dwarf. 

The  spokesman  ignored  him. 

"  Well,  pay  fifteen  francs  and  we  have  seen  nothing." 

"  Impossible." 

"  Then  back  to  Sion  and  the  gendarmerie." 

"  Very  well,  en  route." 

The  pair  scowled  and  turned  aside  to  whisper  together.  The  tall 
one  continued,  "My  comrade  says,  as  you  are  a  pauvre  diable  on 
foot  —  five  francs." 

"  Five  francs  for  two  bunches  of  grapes,  comme  ga  ? "  I  gasped 
holding  them  out. 

"Ach!  Fin,  ungliicklicher  Kerl,"  urged  the  dwarf.  "Say  three 
francs." 

"  No !  "  I  cried,  "  C'en  est  trop.  Two  bunches,  like  that  ?  I  have 
here  two  francs  — " 

The  leader  shook  his  head,  glanced  at  his  mate,  and  took  several 
steps  in  the  direction  of  Sion. 

"  Ah !     A  poor  devil  on  the  road,"  breathed  the  other. 

"  Well,  two  it  is,"  growled  the  moving  spirit. 

I  took  two  francs  from  my  pocket  and  dropped  them  into  the  out- 
stretched palm.  The  officer  jingled  the  coins  a  moment,  handed  one 
to  his  companion,  and  pocketed  the  other  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  well  performed  an  unpleasant  duty.  His  threatening  scowl  had 
vanished  and  a  smile  played  on  his  lean  face. 

"  Merci,"  he  said,  dropping  his  shield  into  a  side  pocket  and  turning 

back;.*  -place,  "  au  revoir,  monsieur !  "     And  the  small  man, 

n  his  heels,  turned  to  add,  "  Bon  voyage,  monsieur 

ito  the  dusk,  eating  the  high-priced  grapes,  and  won- 
e  the  owner  of  the  vineyard  entered  into  the  trans- 

ar  the  treacherous  clump  of  bushes  I  passed  the  un- 
between  French  and  German  Switzerland.     Thus  far 


40      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  former  tongue  had  reigned  supreme,  though  pedestrians  often 
greeted  me  with  "  Bon  jour,"  "  Guten  Tag."  But  the  voice  of  the 
street  in  Sierre,  where  I  halted  for  the  night,  was  overwhelmingly  Teu- 
tonic, and  the  signs  over  hospitable  doors  no  longer  read  "  auberge,"  but 
"  Wirtschaft "  and  "  Bierhalle."  There  I  lay  late  abed  next  morning, 
and  once  off,  strolled  leisurely  along  the  fertile  valley,  for  a  bare  twenty 
miles  separated  the  town  from  Brieg,  at  the  foot  of  the  Simplon 
pass. 

You  who  turn  in  each  evening  at  the  selfsame  threshold,  you  who 
huddle  in  your  niche  among  the  cave-dwellers  of  great  cities,  you  who 
race  through  foreign  lands  in  car  and  carriage  as  if  fearful  of  setting 
foot  on  an  alien  soil,  can  know  nothing  of  the  exhilaration  that  comes 
in  tramping  mile  after  mile  of  open  country  when  life  blooms  forth  in 
its  prime  on  every  hand.  A  single  day  afoot  brings  delight.  Yet  only 
he  who  looks  day  after  day  on  an  ever-changing  scene,  who  passes  on 
and  ever  on  into  the  great  Weltraum  that  stretches  unendingly  before 
him,  can  feel  the  full  strength  of  the  Wanderlust  within.  To  stop 
seems  an  irreverence,  to  turn  back  a  sacrilege.  In  these  days  of  splen- 
did transportation  we  lose  much  that  our  forefathers  enjoyed.  There 
is  a  sense  of  satisfaction  akin  to  self-pride,  a  sense  of  real  accomplish- 
ment that  thrills  the  pedestrian  who  has  attained  a  distant  goal  through 
his  own  unaided  efforts,  a  satisfaction  which  the  traveler  by  steam 
cannot  experience. 

The  highway  over  the  Simplon,  constructed  by  Napoleon  in  1805, 
is  still,  in  spite  of  the  encroachment  of  railways,  a  well-traveled  route, 
though  not  by  pedestrians.  The  good  people  of  Brieg  burst  forth 
in  wailing  sympathy  when  I  divulged  my  plan  of  crossing  on  foot. 
Traffic  between  the  village  and  Domo  d'Ossola  in  Piedmont  has  for 
generations  been  monopolized  by  a  line  of  stage-coaches.  There  was 
more  than  the  exhilaration  of  such  a  tramp,  however,  to  awaken  my 
revolt  against  this  time-honored  means  of  transportation,  for  the  fare 
on  one  of  these  primitive  bone-shakers  ranged  from  forty  to  fifty 
francs. 

With  a  vagrant's  lunch  in  my  knapsack  I  left  Brieg 
first  tramontane  hamlet  was  thirty  miles  distant.  Be 
the  morning  stage  rattled  by  and  the  jeering  of  its  di 
on.  The  highway  showed  nowhere  a  really  steep 
mounted  seven  thousand  feet  in  twenty-three  kilomet 
turn  of  the  route  the  panorama  grew.  Three  houi 
peeped  out  through  the  slender  Tannenbdmne,  far  t 


IN  FRANCE  AND  SWITZERLAND  41 

directly  beneath;  and  the  vista  extended  far  down  the  winding  valley 
of  the  Rhone,  back  to  the  sentinel  rocks  of  Sion  and  beyond.  Across 
the  chasm  sturdy  mountaineers  scrambled  from  rock  to  boulder  with 
their  sheep  and  goats,  as  high  as  grew  the  hardiest  sprig  of  vegeta- 
tion. Far  above  the  last  shrub,  ragged,  barren  peaks  cut  from  the 
blue  sky  beyond  figures  of  fantastic  shape ;  peaks  aglow  with  nature's 
most  lavish  coloring,  here  one  deep  purple  in  the  morning  shade,  there 
another,  with  basic  tone  of  ruddy  pink  changed  like  watered  silk  un- 
der the  reflection  of  the  rays  that  gilded  its  summit. 

Beyond  the  spot  where  Brieg  was  lost  to  view  began  the  refuges, 
roadside  cottages  in  which  the  traveler,  overcome  by  fatigue  or  the 
raging  storms  of  winter,  may  seek  shelter.  In  this  summer  season, 
however,  they  had  degenerated  one  and  all  into  dirty  wine-shops  where 
squalling  children  and  stray  goats  wandered  about  among  the  tables. 
I  peered  in  at  one  and  inquired  the  price  of  a  bottle  of  wine.  A 
spidery  female  rose  up  to  fleece  me  of  my  slender  hoard  and  I  beat  a 
hasty  retreat,  thankful  to  have  come  prepared  against  the  call  of 
hunger,  and  content  to  drink  the  crystalline  water  of  wayside 
streams. 

The  roadway  found  scant  footing  in  the  upper  ranges,  and  burrowed 
its  way  through  several  tunnels.  High  above  one  of  them  a  glacier 
sent  down  a  roaring  torrent  sheer  over  the  route,  and  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  outer  wall  of  the  subtorrential  gallery  one  could  reach  out 
and  touch  the  foaming  stream  as  it  plunged  into  the  abyss  far  below. 

Light  clouds,  that  had  obscured  the  sterile  peaks  during  the  last 
hours  of  the  ascent,  all  but  caused  me  to  pass  unnoticed  the  hospice  of 
St.  Bernard  that  marks  the  summit.  I  stepped  inside  to  write  a  postal 
to  the  world  below,  and  turned  out  again  into  a  drizzling  rain  that  soon 
became  a  steady  downpour.  But  the  kilometers  that  had  been  so  long 
in  the  rnorning  fairly  raced  by  on  the  downward  journey,  and  a  few 
hours  brought  me  to  the  frontier. 

As  if  fearful  of  losing  sovereignty  over  a  foot  of  her  territory, 
Italy  has  set  a  guard-house  exactly  over  the  boundary  line,  amid  wild 
rocks  and  gorges.  A  watchful  soldier  stepped  out  into  the  storm  and 
hailed  me  while  several  yards  of  Switzerland  still  lay  between  us : 

"  Any  tobacco  or  cigars  ?  " 

I  fished  out  a  half-used  package  of  Swiss  tobacco,  wet  and  mushy. 
The  officer  waved  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"  What 's  this?  "  he  demanded,  tapping  the  pocket  that  held  my  ko- 
dak. 


42      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  A  picture  machine,"  I  explained,  showing  an  edge  of  the  ap- 
paratus. 

"  Bene,  buona  sera,"  cried  the  officer,  as  he  ran  for  his  shelter. 

At  nightfall  I  splashed  into  the  scraggy  village  of  Iselle.  From  a 
yawning  hole  in  the  mountainside  poured  forth  a  regiment  of  laborers 
who  scurried  towards  a  long  row  of  improvised  shanties,  hanging,  on 
the  edge  of  nothing,  over  a  rushing  mountain  river.  Having  once 
been  a  "  mud-mucker  "  in  my  own  land,  I  followed  after,  and  struck  up 
several  acquaintanceships  over  the  evening  macaroni.  The  band  was 
engaged  in  boring  a  tunnel,  thirteen  miles  in  length,  from  Brieg  to 
Iselle.  With  its  completion  the  Simplon  tourist  will  avoid  the  splendid 
scenery  of  the  pass;  the  stagecoaches  will  be  consigned  to  the  scrap- 
heaps  they  should  long  since  have  adorned ;  and  an  hour,  robbed  of 
sunshine  and  pure  air,  will  separate  Italy  from  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 
Then  will  the  transalpine  voyager  degenerate  into  the  subalpine  pas- 
senger. 


CHAPTER  III 

TRAMPING   IN    ITALY 

THERE  was  next  morning  nothing  to  recall  the  dismal  weather 
of  the  day  before  except  the  deep  mud  of  the  highway  and  my 
garments,  still  dripping  wet  when  I  drew  them  on.  The  vine- 
covered  hillsides  and  rolling  plains  below,  the  lizards  basking  on 
every  rock  and  ledge,  peasant  women  plodding  barefooted  along  the 
route  gave  to  the  land  an  aspect  far  different  from  that  of  the  valley 
of  the  Rhone.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  the  open  fields  and  chilling 
night  winds  of  Switzerland  were  not  hundreds  of  miles  away,  but  just 
behind  the  flanking  range. 

The  French  and  German  that  had  so  long  served  me  must  now  give 
place  to  my  none  too  fluent  Italian.  In  the  grey  old  town  of  Domo 
d'Ossola  I  halted  at  a  booth  to  buy  a  box  of  matches. 

"  Avete  allumette?"  I  demanded  of  the  brown-visaged  matron  in 
charge. 

I  have  always  had  an  unconquerable  feeling  that  the  French  "  allu- 
mette "  ought  really  to  be  an  Italian  word ;  but  my  attempt  to  intro- 
duce it  into  that  language  failed  dismally. 

"Cose  sono  allumette?"  croaked  the  daughter  of  Italy,  with  such 
overdrawn  sarcasm  that  it  was  all  too  evident  that  she  understood 
the  term,  but  did  not  propose  to  admit  any  knowledge  of  the  despised 
francese  tongue. 

"  Fiammiferi,  voglio  dire,"  I  replied,  recalling  the  correct  word. 

"  Ah !  Ecco ! "  cried  the  matron,  handing  me  a  box  with  her 
blandest  smile. 

I  quickly  discovered,  too,  that  the  language  of  the  Divine  Comedy 
was  not  the  one  in  which  to  make  known  my  simple  wants.  But 
being  more  famihar  with  the  phraseology  of  the  famous  Florentine 
than  with  the  speech  of  the  masses,  I  found  myself,  in  those  first  days 
in  the  peninsula,  prone  to  converse  in  poetries  despite  a  very  prosaic 
temperament.  As  when,  in  the  outskirts  of  Domo  d'Ossola,  I  turned 
to  a  chestnut  vendor  at  a  fork  in  the  road,  and  pointing  up  one  of  the 
branches,  demanded: 

43 


44      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Ah !  —  er  —  Perme  si  va  nella  citta  dol  —  Confound  it,  no,  I  mean 
is  this  the  road  to  Varese  ?  " 

To  which  the  native,  to  whose  Hps  was  mounting  a  "  non  capisc' " 
at  sound  of  the  Dantesque  phrase,  answered  in  a  twinkhng: 

"  Di  s'guro,  s'gnor',  semp'  dritt !  " 

Across  northern  Italy,  almost  in  a  straight  line,  are  scattered  several 
famous  cities,  all  invaded  by  the  broad  highway  that  leads  from  the 
Simplon  to  Venice.  Most  beautiful  among  them  is  Pallanza,  a  village 
paradise  on  the  shore  of  Lago  Maggiore,  in  the  lakeside  groves  of 
which  I  should  have  tarried  longer  but  for  the  recollection  of  how  wide 
the  world  is  to  the  impecunious  wayfarer.  I  fished  out,  therefore,  from 
the  bin  of  a  second-hand  book  dealer  a  ragged  Baedeker  in  French, 
and,  thus  armed  with  a  more  trustworthy  source  of  information  than 
dull-eyed  peasants,  boarded  the  steamer  that  connected  the  broken  ends 
of  the  highway.  During  the  short  journey  a  band  of  English  tourists 
sauntered  about  on  the  deck  above  me,  and  my  native  tongue,  unheard 
since  Paris  and  not  to  be  heard  again  until  —  well,  until  long  after, 
isounded  almost  foreign  to  my  ears. 

Beyond  Varese  next  morning,  within  sight  of  five  snow-capped 
peaks  of  the  range  I  had  crossed  three  days  before,  I  espied  from 
afar  the  white  sun-shields  of  two  officers,  armed  with  muskets,  and 
marching  westward.  Anticipating  a  quizzing,  I  turned  aside  from 
the  sun-scorched  route  and  awaited  their  coming  in  a  shaded  spot. 
Strange  to  say,  in  this  land  burdened  with  a  tax  on  salt  and  an  unholy 
visitation  of  soldiers  and  priests,  vagrants  enjoy  far  more  liberty  than 
in  France.  Thus  far  the  indifference  of  the  gendarmerie  had  been  so 
marked  that  I  had  come  to  feel  neglected.  Yet  tramps  abounded. 
This  very  freedom  makes  Italy  a  favorite  land  among  the  Hand- 
werksgesellen  of  Switzerland,  Germany,  and  Austria,  many  of  whom 
I  had  already  met,  marching  southward  full  of  Wanderlust,  or  crawl- 
ing homeward  with  bitter  stories  of  the  miseries  of  the  peninsula. 

The  carahinieri,  spick  and  span  of  uniform,  their  swords  rattling 
egotistically  on  the  roadway,  drew  near,  and,  stepping  into  the  shade, 
opened  a  conversation  that  needs  no  translation. 

"Di  dove  siete?" 

"  Di  America,  dei  Stati  Uniti." 

"  Di  America !     Ma !    E  dove  andate  ?  " 

"  A  Venezia." 

"Ma!     Come!    Apiedi?" 

"  Di  siguro.     Come  volete  che  fare  ?  " 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY 


45 


Ma !     Perche  andare  a  Venezia  ?  " 

"  Sono  marinaio." 

"  Ah !  Marinaio !  Bene !  "  and  without  even  calling  for  my  papers 
they  strutted  on  along  the  highway. 

A  wonderful  word  is  this  Italian  "  ma."  Let  not  the  uninitiated  sup- 
pose that  the  term  designates  a  maternal  ancestor.  But  —  and  that  is 
its  real  meaning  —  it  is  a  useful  vocable  and  like  all  useful  things  is 
greatly  overworked.  If  an  Italian  of  the  masses  wishes  to  express  dis- 
gust, surprise,  resignation,  depression  of  spirits,  or  any  one  of  a  score 
of  other  impressions,  he  has  merely  to  say  "  ma  "  with  the  correspond- 
ing accentuation  and  timbre  and  his  hearers  know  his  opinion  exactly. 
It  takes  the  place  of  our  "  All  right !  "  "  Hurry  up !  "  "  Quit  it !  " 
"Let  'er  go!"  "The  devil  he  did!"  "Rot!"  "Dew  tell!" 
"  Cuss  the  luck !  "  "  Nuff  said !  "  "  D— n  it !  "  and  there  its  meanings 
by  no  means  cease. 

Poverty  stalks  abroad  in  Italy.  Even  in  this  richer  northern  section 
it  required  no  telescope  to  make  out  its  gaunt  and  furrowed  features. 
Ragged  children  quarrelled  for  the  possession  of  an  apple-core  thrown 
by  the  wayside;  the  rolling  fields  were  alive  with  barefooted  women 
toiling  like  demon-driven  serfs.  A  sparrow  could  not  have  found 
sustenance  behind  the  gleaners.  In  wayside  orchards  men  armed  with 
grain-sacks  stripped  even  the  trees  of  their  leaves;  for  what  purpose 
was  not  evident,  though  the  beds  to  which  I  was  assigned  in  village 
inns  suggested  a  possible  solution  of  the  problem. 

The  peasant  of  these  parts  possesses  three  beasts  of  burden :  a  team 
of  gaunt  white  oxen  —  or  cows  —  an  undersized  ass,  and  his  wife. 
Of  the  three,  the  last  is  most  useful.  The  husbandman  does  not 
load  his  hay  on  wagons ;  a  few  blades  might  fall  by  the  wayside.  He 
ties  it  carefully  in  small  bundles,  piles  them  high  above  the  baskets 
strapped  on  the  backs  of  his  helpmeet,  and  drives  her  off  to  the  village, 
often  miles  distant.  They  are  loads  which  the  American  workman 
would  refuse  to  carry  —  so  does  the  Italian  for  that  matter ;  but  the 
highway  is  animate  with  what  look,  at  a  distance,  like  wandering  hay- 
stacks, from  beneath  which,  on  nearer  approach,  peer  women,  or  half- 
grown  girls,  whose  drawn  and  haggard  faces  might  have  served  as 
models  to  those  artists  who  have  depicted  on  canvas  the  beings  of 
Dante's  hell. 

A  traveler,  ignorant  of  Italian,  wandering  into  Como  at  my  heels  on 
that  sweltering  afternoon,  would  have  been  justified  in  supposing  that 
the  advance  agent  of  a  circus  had  preceded  him.     Had  he  taken  the 


46      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

trouble  to  engage  an  interpreter,  however,  he  would  have  learned  that 
a  more  serious  catastrophe  had  befallen.  The  very  night  before  a 
longed-hoped-for  heir  to  the  throne  of  Vittore  Emanuele  had  dropped 
into  his  reserved  seat  on  the  neck  of  the  Italian  tax-payer.  On  the 
city  gate,  on  house-walls  everywhere,  on  the  very  fagade  of  the 
cathedral,  great,  paste-sweating  placards  announced  the  casuality  in 
flaunting  head-lines,  and  a  greater  aggregation  of  adjectives  than  would 
be  required  in  our  own  over-postered  land  to  call  public  attention  to 
the  merits  of  Chow  Chow  Chewing  Gum,  or  the  Yum  Yum  Burlesque 
Company.  Worst  of  all,  the  manifesto  ended,  not  with  expressions  of 
condolence  to  the  proletariat,  but  with  a  command  to  swear  at  once 
loyalty  and  fealty  to  "  II  Principe  di  Piemonte."  Everywhere  jostHng 
groups  were  engrossed  in  spelling  out  the  proclamation ;  but  it  was 
quite  possible  to  pass  through  the  streets  of  Como  without  being 
trampled  under  foot  by  its  citizens  in  their  mad  rush  to  carry  out  the 
royal  order. 

Nightfall  found  me  in  quest  of  a  lodging  in  Pusiano,  a  lakeside 
village  midway  between  Como  and  Lecco.  It  was  no  easy  task.  The 
alherghi  of  Italy  —  but  why  generalize  ?  They  are  all  tarred  with  the 
same  stick.  The  proprietor,  then,  of  the  Pusiano  hostelry,  relying  for 
his  custom  on  those  who  know  every  in  and  out  of  the  town,  had  not 
gone  to  the  expense  of  erecting  a  sign.  I  found,  after  long  and  dili- 
gent search,  the  edifice  that  included  the  public  resort  under  its  roof; 
but  as  the  inn  had  no  door  opening  on  the  street,  I  was  still  faced 
with  the  problem  of  finding  the  entrance.  Of  two  dark  passages  and  a 
darker  stairway  before  me,  it  was  a  question  which  was  most  sugges- 
tive of  pitfalls  set  for  unwary  travelers,  and  of  dank,  underground  dun- 
geons. I  plunged  into  one  of  the  tunnels  with  my  hands  on  the  de- 
fensive ;  which  was  fortunate,  for  I  brought  up  against  a  stone  wall. 
The  second  passage  ended  as  abruptly.  I  approached  the  stairway 
stealthily ;  stumbled  up  the  stone  steps,  over  a  stray  cat  and  a  tin  pan, 
and  into  the  common  room  of  the  Pusiano  inn  —  common  because  it 
served  as  kitchen,  dining-room,  parlor,  and  ofiice. 

My  wants  made  known,  the  proprietor  half  rose  to  his  feet,  sat 
down  again,  and  motioned  me  to  a  seat.  I  took  a  place  opposite  him 
on  one  of  the  two  benches  inside  the  fire-place,  partly  because  it  had 
been  raining  outside,  but  chiefly  on  account  of  an  absence  of  chairs 
that  left  me  no  choice  in  the  matter.  Shrouded  in  silence  I  filled  my 
pipe.  The  landlord  handed  me  a  glowing  coal  in  his  fingers  and 
dropped  back  on  his  bench  without  once  subduing  his  stare.     His  wife 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  47 

wandered  in  and  placed  several  pots  and  kettles  around  the  fire  that 
toasted  our  heels.  Still  not  a  word.  I  leaned  back  and,  gazing  up- 
ward, watched  as  much  of  the  smoke  as  could  find  no  other  vent  pass 
up  the  chimney.  Now  and  then  a  drop  of  rain  fell  with  a  hiss  on  pan 
or  kettle. 

"  Not  nice  weather,"  grinned  the  landlord,  and  the  ice  thus  broken, 
we  were  soon  engaged  in  animated  conversation.  Too  animated  in 
fact,  for  in  emphasizing  some  opinion  mine  host  had  the  misfortune 
to  kick  over  a  kettle  of  boiling  macaroni  and  was  banished  from  the 
chimney  corner  by  a  raging  spouse.  Being  less  given  to  pedal  ges- 
ticulation, I  kept  my  place,  and  strove  to  answer  the  questions  which 
the  exile  fired  at  me  across  the  room. 

By  meal  time  several  natives  had  dropped  in,  and  our  party  at  table 
grew  garrulous  and  in  time  so  numerous  that  to  serve  us  became  a  seri- 
ous problem  to  the  hostess,  who  was  neither  lithe  nor  quick  of  move- 
ment. The  supper  began  with  una  minestra,  a  plate  of  soup  containing 
some  species  of  macaroni  and,  as  usual  in  these  cheap  alberghi,  several 
species  of  scrap-iron.  Then  a  bit  of  meat  was  doled  out,  somewhat 
to  my  surprise ;  for  the  price  of  this  article  is  so  high  in  Italy  that  a 
stew  of  kidneys,  liver,  sheep's  head,  or  fat-covered  entrails  is  often 
the  only  offering.  He  who  has  the  temerity  and  a  heavy  enough  purse 
to  order  a  cutlet  or  a  bistecca  in  such  an  inn  is  looked  upon  with  awe 
and  envy  as  long  as  he  remains.     I  seldom  had  either. 

Following  the  meat  dish  —  it  is  never  served  with  it  —  came  a  bowl 
of  vegetables,  then  a  bit  of  fruit  and  a  nibble  of  cheese  for  each  of  us. 
Wine,  of  course,  had  been  much  in  evidence ;  the  Italian  has  no  con- 
ception of  a  meal  without  his  national  drink.  The  wayfarer  may  call 
for  nothing  to  eat  but  the  three-cent  minestra,  and  la  signora  serves 
it  as  cheerily  as  a  dinner  at  one  lira ;  but  let  him  refuse  to  order  wine, 
and  her  sympathy  is  forever  forfeited.  When  drowsiness  fell  upon  me 
the  hostess  led  the  way  to  an  airy,  spacious  room,  its  bed  boasting  a 
lace  canopy,  and  its  coarse  sheets  remarkably  white  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  the  Italian  housewife  does  her  work  in  the  village  brook,  and 
never  uses  hot  water.  Such  labor  is  cheap  in  the  peninsula  and  for 
all  this  luxury  I  paid  less  than  ten  cents. 

Early  next  day  I  pushed  on  toward  Lecco.  A  light  frost  had  fallen 
during  the  night,  and  the  peasants,  alarmed  at  this  first  breath  of  win- 
ter, had  sent  into  the  vineyards  every  man,  woman,  and  child  capable 
of  labor.  The  pickers  worked  feverishly.  All  day  women  plodded 
from  the  fields  to  the  roadside  with  great  buckets  of  grapes  to  be 


48      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

dumped  into  hogsheads  on  waiting  ox-carts.  Men,  booted  or  shod 
with  wooden  clogs,  jumped  now  and  then  into  the  barrels  and  stamped 
the  grapes  down.  Once  full,  the  receptacles  were  covered  with  strips 
of  dirty  canvas,  the  contadino  mounted  his  cart,  turned  his  oxen  into 
the  highway,  and  fell  promptly  asleep.  Arrived  at  the  village,  he 
drew  up  before  the  chute  of  the  communal  wine-press  and  shoveled 
his  grapes  into  a  slowly-revolving  hopper,  from  which,  crushed  to  an 
oozy  pulp,  they  were  run  into  huge  vats  and  left  to  settle. 

Halting  for  a  morning  lunch  in  the  shadow  of  the  statue  of  Manzoni, 
I  rounded  that  range  of  mountains,  so  strangely  resembling  a  saw, 
which  shelters  Lecco  from  the  east  wind,  and  continuing  through  the 
theater  of  action  of""  I  Promessi  Sposi,"  gained  Bergamo  by  nightfall. 
Beyond  that  city  a  level  highway  set  an  unchanging  course  across  a 
vast,  grape-bearing  plain,  watered  by  a  network  of  canals.  The  Alps 
retired  slowly  to  the  northward  until,  at  Brescia,  only  a  phantom 
range  wavered  in  the  haze  of  the  distant  horizon. 

About  the  time  of  my  arrival  in  Italy,  a  strike  had  been  declared 
in  Milan.  The  Milanese  motormen  had  refused  to  groom  their  horses 
or  something  of  the  sort.  Once  started,  the  movement  was  rapidly 
growing  general  and  wide-spread.  The  newspapers  bubbled  over  with 
it,  the  air  about  me  was  surcharged  with  raging  arraignments  of 
capitalistic  iniquities.  Strikes  and  lock-outs,  however,  were  no  affairs 
to  trouble  the  peace  of  a  foot-traveler.  When  trains  ceased  to  run, 
I  marched  serenely  on  through  clamoring  groups  of  stranded  voy- 
agers ;  when  the  barbers  closed  their  shops,  I  decided  to  raise  a  beard. 
The  butchers  joined  the  movement  and  I  smiled  with  the  indifference 
of  one  who  had  subsisted  for  weeks  chiefly  on  bread. 

The  bakers  of  northern  Italy  concoct  this  important  comestible  in 
loaves  of  about  the  size  and  durability  of  baseballs.  Serving  in  that 
capacity  ther^  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  one  of  them  would  remain 
unscathed  at  the  end  of  a  league  game,  though  the  score-book  re- 
corded many  a  three-bagger  and  home-run.  Still,  hard  loaves  soaked  in 
wine,  or  crushed  between  two  wayside  rocks  were  edible,  in  a  way; 
and,  as  long  as  they  were  plentiful,  I  could  not  suffer  for  lack  of 
food. 

A  few  miles  beyond  Brescia,  however,  the  strike  became  a  matter 
of  personal  importance.  At  each  of  the  bakeries  of  a  grumbling  vil- 
lage I  was  turned  away  with  the  cry  of :  — 

"  Pane  non  ch'e !  The  strike !  The  bakers  have  joined  the  strike 
and  no  more  bread  is  made ! " 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  49 

To  satisfy  that  day's  appetite  I  was  reduced  to  "paste,"  a  mushy 
mess  of  macaroni ;  and  at  a  Verona  inn  I  was  robbed  of  half  my  sleep 
by  the  discussion  of  this  new  phase  of  the  situation,  that  roared  in 
the  kitchen  until  long  after  midnight. 

I  was  returning  across  the  piazza  next  morning,  from  an  early 
view  of  the  picturesque  bridges  and  the  ancient  Colosseum  of  Verona, 
when  I  fell  upon  a  howling  mob  at  the  gateway  of  the  city  hall. 
Joining  the  throng,  I  soon  gained  an  inner  courtyard,  to  find  what 
seemed  to  be  half  the  population  of  Verona  quarreling,  pushing,  and 
scratching  in  a  struggle  to  reach  the  gate  of  a  large  wicket  that  shut 
off  one  end  of  the  square.  Behind  it,  just  visible  above  the  interven- 
ing sea  of  heads,  appeared  the  top  of  some  massive  instrument,  and 
the  caps  of  a  squad  of  policemen.  I  inquired  of  an  excited  neighbor  the 
cause  of  the  squabble.  He  glowered  at  me  and  howled  something  in 
reply,  the  only  intelligible  word  of  which  was  "pane"  (bread).  I 
turned  to  a  man  behind  me.  He  took  advantage  of  my  movement  to 
shove  me  aside  and  crowd  into  my  place,  at  the  same  time  vociferating 
"  pane !  "  I  tried  to  oust  the  usurper.  He  jabbed  me  twice  in  the 
ribs  with  his  elbows,  and  again  roared  "  pane."  In  fact,  everywhere 
above  the  howl  and  blare  of  the  multitude,  one  word  rang  out  clear 
and  sharp  — "  pane !  pane !  pane !  "  Sad  experiences  of  the  day  before, 
and  the  anticipation  of  the  long  miles  of  highway  before  me,  had 
aroused  my  interest  in  that  commodity.  I  dived  into  the  human  whirl- 
pool and  set  out  to  battle  my  way  towards  the  vortex. 

With  all  its  noise  and  bluster,  an  Italian  crowd  does  not  know  the 
rudiments  of  football.  Even  the  wretch  who  had  dispossessed  me  of 
my  first  vantage-ground  was  far  behind  when  I  reached  the  front 
rank  and  paused  to  survey  the  scene  of  conflict.  Inside  the  wicket 
a  dozen  perspiring  policemen  were  guarding  several  huge  baskets  of 
that  baseball  bread  already  mentioned.  Beyond  them  stood  the  in- 
strument that  had  attracted  my  attention  —  a  pair  of  wooden  scales 
that  looked  fully  capable  of  giving  the  avoirdupois  of  an  ox.  Still 
further  on,  an  officer,  whose  expression  suggested  that  he  was  record- 
ing nominations  of  candidates  to  fill  the  King's  seat,  presided  over 
a  ponderous  book,  a  pen  the  size  of  a  stiletto  behind  each  ear,  and  one 
resembling  a  young  bayonet  in  his  hand. 

One  by  one  the  citizens  of  Verona  shot  through  a  small  gate  into 
the  enclosure  from  the  surging  multitude  outside  as  from  a  catapult; 
to  be  brought  up  with  a  round  turn  by  the  shouted  question,  "  Pound 
or  two  pounds  ?  "     Once  weighed  out,  the  desired  number  of  loaves 

4 


50      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

traveled  rapidly  from  hand  to  hand  on  one  side  of  the  official  line; 
while  the  applicant,  struggling  to  keep  pace  with  them  on  the  other, 
paused  before  the  registering  clerk  to  answer  several  pertinent  per- 
sonal questions,  corralled  his  purchase  at  the  table  of  the  receiving 
teller,  and  made  his  escape  as  best  he  could. 

Almost  before  I  had  time  to  study  the  workings  of  this  system, 
the  press  of  humanity  behind  sent  me  spinning  through  the  gate. 
*'  Two  pounds !  '*  I  shouted,  as  I  swept  by  the  scales  en  route  for  the 
book.  Just  in  front  of  me  a  gaunt  creature  paused  and  gave  his 
residence  as  Florence.  "  No  bread  for  you !  "  roared  every  officer 
within  hearing;  policemen,  sergeants,  and  clerks,  in  a  rousing  chorus, 
"  Only  bread  for  Veronese !  Get  out  of  here !  "  and,  impelled  by  two 
official  boots,  the  stranger  stood  not  on  the  order  of  his  going. 

That  Florentine  was  a  god-send  to  me.  In  my  innocence  I  had 
already  opened  my  mouth  to  shout  "  Americano  "  to  his  Self-Com- 
placency  behind  the  volume,  and,  had  that  fateful  word  escaped  me,  I 
should  have  gone  "  paneless "  through  the  long  hours  of  a  long 
day. 

"Residenza?"  shouted  the  registrar,  as  I  entered  his  field  of 
vision. 

"  Verona,  signore." 

"Professione?" 

"  Calzolaio,  signore." 

"  Street  and  number." 

I  remembered  the  name  of  one  street  and  tacked  on  a  number 
haphazard. 

"  Bene !  Va ! "  An  official  hand  pushed  me  unceremoniously  towards 
the  teller.  I  dropped  ten  soldi,  gathered  up  my  bread,  and  departed 
by  the  further  wicket-gate  down  a  flagstone  alley. 

Let  him  who  has  not  tried  it  take  my  word  that  to  carry  two 
pounds  of  edible  baseballs  in  his  arms  is  no  simple  task.  A  loaf 
rolled  in  the  gutter  before  I  had  advanced  a  dozen  paces.  The  others 
squirmed  waywardly  in  my  grasp.  With  both  hands  amply  occupied, 
I  was  reduced  to  the  indignity  of  squatting  on  the  pavement  to  fill 
my  pockets,  and  even  then  a  witless  observer  would  have  taken  me 
for  an  itinerant  juggler.  Never  since  leaving  Detroit  had  I  posed  as  a 
philanthropist,  but  the  burden  of 'bread  called  for  drastic  measures; 
I  must  either  be  charitable  or  wasteful. 

He  who  longs  to  give  alms  in  Italy  has  not  far  to  look  for  a 
recipient  of  his  benefaction.     I  glanced  down  the  passageway,  and  my 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  51 

eyes  fell  on  a  beggar  of  forlornly  mournful  aspect  crouched  in  a 
gloomy  doorway.  With  a  benignant  smile  I  bestowed  upon  him  enough 
of  my  load  with  which  to  play  the  American  national  game  among  his 
confreres  until  the  season  closed.  The  outcast  wore  a  sign  marked, 
"  Deaf  and  dumb."  Either  he  had  picked  up  the  wrong  placard  in 
sallying  forth,  or  had  been  startled  out  of  his  role  by  the  munificence 
of  the  gift.  For  as  long  as  a  screeching  voice  could  reach  me  I  was 
deluged  with  more  blessings,  to  be  delivered  by  the  Virgin  Mary ;  Her 
Son ;  every  pope,  past,  present,  or  to  come ;  or  any  saint,  dead,  living, 
or  unborn,  who  had  a  few  stray  ones  about  him ;  than  I  could  possibly 
have  found  use  for. 

I  plodded  on  towards  Vincenza.  All  that  day  the  hard-earned 
loaves,  which  I  dissolved  in  a  glass  of  wine  at  village  inns,  aroused 
the  envy  of  pessimistic  groups  gathered  to  curse  the  strike  in  general 
and  that  of  the  bakers  in  particular. 

When  morning  broke  again  I  summoned  courage  to  test  the  third- 
class  accommodations  of  Italy,  and  took  train  from  Vincenza  to 
Padua.  At  least,  the  ticket  I  purchased  bore  those  two  names,  though 
the  company  hardly  lived  up  to  the  printed  contract  thereon.  We 
started  from  somewhere  off  in  the  woods  to  the  west  of  Vincenza 
and,  at  the  end  of  several  hours  of  jolting  and  bumping,  not  excused, 
certainly,  by  the  speed  of  the  train,  were  set  down  in  the  center  of  a 
wheat  field,  which  the  guards  informed  us,  in  blatant  voices,  was 
Padua.  I  had  a  faint  recollection  of  having  heard  somewhere  that 
Padua  boasted  buildings  and  streets,  like  other  cities.  It  was  possible, 
of  course,  that  the  source  of  my  information  had  been  untrustworthy ; 
I  am  nothing  if  not  gullible.  But  fixed  impressions  are  not  easily 
effaced,  and  I  wandered  out  through  the  sequestered  station  to  whisper 
my  absurd  delusion  to  the  first  passerby. 

"  Padova !  "  he  snorted,  "  Ma  !  Di  siguro !  Certainly  this  is  Padua ! 
Follow  this  road  for  a  kilometer.  Just  before  you  come  in  sight  of 
a  whitewashed  pig-sty  turn  to  the  left,  walk  sempre  dritt',  and  the 
city  cannot  escape  you." 

I  set  out  with  the  inner  sense  of  having  been  "  done  "  by  the  rail- 
way company,  but  the  good  man's  directions  proved  accurate  and 
brought  me  in  due  time  to  the  city  gate. 

The  Italian  stammers  two  excuses  for  this  enchanting  custom  of 
banishing  his  stations  to  the  surrounding  meadows.  If  the  city  ad- 
mitted railways  within  her  walls  —  and  every  town  larger  than  a 
community  of  goat-herds  is  walled  —  how  could  the  officials  of  the 


52      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

octroi  collect  the  duty  on  a  cabbage  hidden  in  the  fireman's  tool-box? 
Or  in  case  of  foreign  invasion!  A  regiment  of  Austrians  ensconced 
under  the  benches  of  the  third-class  coach  might,  if  they  survived 
the  journey,  butcher  the  entire  population  before  their  presence  was 
suspected.  Besides,  who  could  live  in  peace  and  contentment  knowing 
that  the  sacred  intermural  precincts  might  at  any  moment  be  del- 
uged with  a  train-load  of  cackling,  beBaedekered  tour  —  But  no,  now 
I  think  of  it,  my  informant  offered  only  two  apologies. 

Those  who  are  victims  of  insomnia  should  journey  to  Padua, 
There  may  be  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  Europe  another  community 
as  conducive  to  sleep,  but  it  has  thus  far  escaped  discovery.  The 
sun  is  undoubtedly  hot  in  Italy  during  the  summer  months.  There 
runs  a  proverb  in  the  peninsula  to  the  effect  that  only  fools  and  the 
English  —  which  of  course,  includes  Americans  —  venture  forth  near 
noonday  without  at  least  the  protection  of  a  parasol.  But  having 
suffered  no  evil  effects  during  weeks  of  tramping  in  the  country  with 
only  a  cap  on  my  head,  I,  for  one,  should  hesitate  to  charge  entirely 
to  climatic  conditions  the  torpor  of  the  Padovans. 

At  any  rate  the  city  was  lost  in  slumber.  The  few  horses  dragged 
their  vehicles  at  a  snail's  pace ;  the  drivers  nodded  on  their  seats ;  those 
few  shopkeepers  who  had  not  put  up  their  shutters  and  retired  to  the 
bosom  of  their  families  could  with  difficulty  be  aroused  from  their 
siestas  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  yawning  customers.  The  very  dogs 
slept  in  the  gutters  or  under  the  chairs  of  their  torpescent  masters, 
and,  to  judge  from  many  a  building  that  was  crumbling  away  and  fall- 
ing asleep  like  the  inhabitants,  this  Morpheusatic  tendency  was  no 
temporary  characteristic. 

However,  the  general  somnolence  permitted  me  to  view  in  peace 
the  statues  and  architecture  for  which  the  drowsy  city  is  justly 
renowned,  and  leaving  it  to  slumber  on,  I  set  off  at  noonday  on  the 
last  stage  of  my  journey  across  northern  Italy.  The  phantom  range 
of  the  Alps  had  disappeared.  Away  to  the  eastward  stretched  a  land 
as  flat  and  unbroken  as  the  sea  which,  tossing  its  drifting  sands 
on  a  lee  shore  through  the  ages,  has  drawn  this  coast  further  and 
further  towards  the  rising  sun.  Walking  had  been  easier  on  the 
long  mountain  ascents  behind,  for  a  powerful  wind  from  off  the 
Adriatic  pressed  me  back  like  an  unseen  hand  at  my  breast.  Certain 
as  I  had  been  of  reaching  Fusiano  on  the  coast  before  the  day  was 
done,  twilight  found  me  still  plodding  on  across  a  barren  lowland. 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  53 

With  the  first  twinkling  star  a  faint  glow  appeared  to  the  left  and 
afar  ofif,  giving  center  to  the  surrounding  darkness.  Steadily  it 
grew  until  it  illuminated  a  distant  corner  of  the  firmament,  while 
the  wind  howled  with  ever-increasing  force  across  the  unpeopled 
waste. 

Night  had  long  since  settled  down  when  the  lapping  of  waves  an- 
nounced that  I  had  overtaken  the  retreating  coast-line.  A  few  ram- 
shackle hovels  rose  up  out  of  the  darkness,  but  still  far  out  over  the 
sea  hovered  the  glow  in  the  sky  —  no  distant  conflagration,  as  I  had 
supposed,  but  the  reflected  lights  of  Venice.  Long  cherished  visions 
of  a  cheering  meal  and  a  soft  couch,  before  my  entrance  into  the  city 
of  the  sea,  vanished ;  for  there  was  no  inn  among  the  hovels  of  Fusiano. 
I  took  shelter  in  a  shanty  down  on  the  beach  and  awaited  patiently 
the  ten-o'clock  boat. 

By  the  appointed  hour  there  had  gathered  enough  of  a  swarthy 
crowd  to  fill  the  tiny  steamer  that  made  fast  with  great  difficulty 
to  the  crazy  wharf.  On  the  open  sea  the  wind  was  riotous,  and  our 
passage  took  on  the  aspect  of  a  trans-atlantic  trip  in  miniature.  Now 
and  then  a  wave  spat  in  the  faces  of  the  passengers  huddled  aft. 
A  ship's  officer  jammed  his  way  among  us  to  collect  the  six-cent 
tickets.  Behind  him  the  officials  of  the  Venice  octroi  were  busily 
engaged  in  levying  dues  on  produce  from  the  country.  Two  poor 
devils,  gaunt  as  death's  heads,  crouched  in  the  waist,  guarding  be- 
tween them  a  bundle  of  vegetables  that  could  be  bought  a  few  centessimi 
cheaper  on  the  mainland  than  in  the  city.  The  stuff  could  not  have 
satisfied  the  normal  appetite  of  one  man;  yet  in  spite  of  their  plead- 
ings, the  pair  were  compelled  to  drop  their  share  of  soldi  into  the 
official  bag. 

By  and  .by  the  toss  of  the  steamer  abated  somewhat.  I  pushed  to 
the  rail  to  peer  out  into  the  night.  Oflf  the  port  bow  appeared  a 
stretch  of  smooth  water  in  which  were  reflected  the  myriad  lights 
of  smaller  craft  and  the  illuminated  windows  of  a  block  of  houses  ris- 
ing sheer  out  of  the  sea.  We  swung  to  port.  A  gondola,  weirdly 
lighted  up  by  torches  on  bow  and  poop,  glided  across  our  bow.  The 
houses  born  of  the  sea  took  on  individuality,  a  wide  canal  opened  on 
our  left  and  curved  away  between  other  buildings,  the  splendor  of 
their  faqades  faintly  suggested  in  the  light  of  mooring-post  lamp 
and  lantern.  It  was  the  Grand  Canal.  The  steamer  nosed  its  way 
through  a  fleet  of  empty  gondolas,  tied  up  at  a  landing  stage  before 


54      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

a  marble  column  bearing  the  lion  of  St.  Mark,  and  the  passengers 
hurried  away  across  the  cathedral  square  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the 
night. 

In  a  city  of  streets  and  avenues  there  are  certain  signs  which 
point  the  way  to  the  ragged  section,  but  among  the  winding  water- 
ways and  arcade  bridges  of  this  strange  metropolis  such  indications 
were  lacking.  A  full  two  hours  I  tramped  at  utter  random,  on  the 
blisters  of  the  highway  from  Padua,  only  to  turn  up  at  last  in  an 
albergo  within  a  stone's  throw  of  my  landing-place  and  the  Palace 
of  the  Doges. 

The  squares  and  alleys  of  Venice  are  strewn  with  human  wreckage. 
In  the  rest  of  Italy  the  most  penurious  wretch  may  move  from  place 
to  place  in  an  attempt  to  ameliorate  his  condition ;  but  on  this 
marshy  island  the  man  unable  to  scrape  together  a  few  soldi  for  boat 
or  car  fare  is  a  prisoner.  The  captives  are  little  accustomed  to  sleep 
within  doors.  Lodging,  obviously,  must  be  high  in  a  city  where  space 
is  absolutely  limited ;  but  there  are  "  joints  "  where  food  sells  more 
cheaply  than  anywhere  else  on  the  continent. 

On  the  evening  following  my  arrival,  I  came  upon  one  of  these 
establishments  which  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  cathedral  of  St.  Mark. 
Appetite  alone  certainly  could  not  have  enticed  me  inside,  but  eager 
to  scrape  acquaintance  with  the  submerged  tenth  —  the  fraction  seems 
small  —  of  Venice,  I  crowded  my  way  into  the  kennel.  A  lean  and 
hungry  multitude  surged  about  the  counter.  At  one  end  of  it  was 
piled  a  stack  of  plates;  near  them  stood  a  box  which,  to  all  appear- 
ances, had  long  done  service  as  a  coal  scuttle,  filled  to  overflowing 
with  twisted  and  rust-eaten  forks  and  spoons.  The  room  was  foggy 
with  the  steam  that  rose  from  a  score  of  giant  kettles  containing  as 
many  species  of  stew,  soup,  and  vegetable  ragout. 

Each  client,  conducting  himself  as  if  he  had  been  fasting  for  a 
week  past,  snatched  a  plate  from  the  stack;  thrust  a  paw  into  the 
box  for  a  weapon  of  attack,  and  dropping  a  few  coppers  of  most  un- 
sanitary aspect  into  the  dish,  shoved  it  with  a  savage  bellow  at  that 
one  of  the  kettles  the  contents  of  which  had  taken  his  fancy.  A  fog- 
bound server  scraped  the  soldi  into  the  till,  poured  a  ladleful  of  steam- 
ing slop  into  the  outstretched  trencher,  and  the  customer  fought  his 
way  into  a  dingy  back-room. 

Amid  the  uproar  I  had  no  time  to  inquire  prices.  I  proffered 
six  cents  to  a  wrinkled  hag  presiding  over  a  caldron  of  what  pur- 
ported to  be  a  tripe  and  liver  ragout.     She  cried  out  in  amazement, 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  55 

handed  back  four  cents,  and  filled  my  plate  to  the  rim.  I  reached 
the  back-room  with  half  the  mess  —  the  rest  being  scooped  up  in  the 
coat  sleeves  of  the  famished  throng  —  and  took  my  place  at  an  al- 
ready crowded  table.  Neither  bread  nor  wine  was  to  be  had  in  the 
house.  On  a  board  propped  up  across  a  corner  of  the  room  were  sev- 
eral cylinders  of  corn  mush,  three  feet  in  diamiCter  and  half  as  thick. 
A  hairless  creature,  stripped  to  the  waist,  cut  off  slabs  of  the  cake 
for  those  who  would  have  something  to  take  the  place  of  bread. 
The  yellow  dough  sold  at  two  cents  a  pound,  yet  each  order 
was  carefully  weighed,  and  purchaser  and  server  watched  the  scales 
jealously  during  the  operation.  As  a  substitute  for  wine  there  was  a 
jar  of  water,  that  abominable,  germ-infested  water  of  Venice,  from 
which  each  drank  in  turn. 

Every  type  of  wretch  which  the  city  shelters  was  represented  in 
the  emaciated  gathering.  Rag-pickers  snarled  at  cathedral  beggars. 
Street  urchins  jostled  bearded  bootblacks.  Female  outcasts  rubbed 
elbows  with  those  gruesome  beings  who  pick  up  a  few  cents  a  day  at 
the  landing  stages.  My  boisterous  appetite  dwindled  away  at  sight 
of  the  messes  around  me  and  in  the  exploration  of  the  mysteries  of 
my  own  portion.  All  at  once  there  burst  upon  me  the  recollection 
that  I  had  seen  neither  a  dog  nor  a  cat  during  all  that  day  in  Venice, 
and  I  turned  and  fought  my  way  to  the  door.  Behind  me  rose  a 
quarrel  over  my  unfinished  portion.  Outside,  on  the  square  beside 
the  fallen  campanile,  kind-hearted  tourists  were  feeding  wholesome 
grain  to  a  flock  of  pigeons,  above  which  magnificent  statues  looked 
down  upon  a  crowd  of  homeless  waifs  huddled  under  the  portico  of 
the  Palace  of  the  Doges. 

I  turned  down  to  the  landing  stage  one  morning  resolved  on  the 
extravagance  of  a  gondola  excursion.  The  water  cabmen  of  Venice 
are  not  wont  to  solicit  men  in  corduroys  and  flannel  shirt.  A  score 
of  them,  just  recovering  from  a  stampede  on  a  tow-head  in  regula- 
tion tourist  garb,  greeted  my  arrival  with  the  fishy  eye  of  indifference. 
When  I  boldly  announced  my  plan,  they  crowded  around  me  to  laugh 
in  derision  at  the  laborer  seeking  to  play  the  lord.  For  some  time 
they  refused  to  take  my  words  seriously,  and  even  then  the  first  skeptic 
to  be  convinced  insisted  on  proof  of  my  financial  solvency  before  he 
proffered  his  services. 

Along  the  Grand  Canal  passing  gondoliers,  without  passengers  to 
keep  them  decorous,  flung  cutting  jests  at  my  propeller. 

"  Eh !    Amico !   What 's  that  you  've  got  ?  " 


56      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

**  Ch'e  un  rico,  colui  qua,  eh  ? " 

"  Sangue  della  Vergine,  caro  mio,  dove  hai  accozzato  quelle  ?  " 

But  once  assured  of  his  fare,  the  fellow  lost  his  smirk  and  became 
all  serviHty,  pointing  out  the  objects  of  interest  with  a  mien  of  owl- 
like solemnity,  and  rebuking  his  fellow-craftsmen  with  an  admonish- 
ing shake  of  the  head. 

Fear  drove  me  forth  from  Venice  before  I  had  rested  the  miles  from 
Paris  out  of  my  legs  —  fear  that  in  a  few  days  more  the  mosquitoes  ■ 
would  finish  their  nefarious  work  and  devour  me  quite.     On  the  Sun-  < 
day  evening  following  the  opening  of  the  carnival,  I  fought  my  con-*" 
f etti-strewn  way  to  the  station  and  "  booked  "  for  Bologna.     I  had 
not  yet,  however,  learned  all  the  secrets  of  Italian  railway  travel. 
The  official  who  snatched  my  ticket  at  the  exit  to  the  platform  and 
the  midnight  express  handed  it  back  and  pushed  me  away  with  a 
withering  glare : 

"  No  third-class  on  this  train,"  he  growled,  "  wait  for  the  slow  train 
at  five  in  the  morning." 

How  any  particular  one  of  the  trains  of  Italy  could  be  discriminated 
against  by  being  called  slow  was  hard  to  comprehend.  Perhaps  I  mis- 
understood the  gateman.  He  may  have  said  "  the  more  slower  train." 
At  any  rate,  I  was  left  to  stretch  out  on  a  truck  and  await  the  lag- 
gard dawn. 

Under  a  declining  sun  our  funereal  caravan  crawled  into  Bologna, 
and  I  struck  out  along  the  ancient  highway  to  Florence.  Between  the 
two  cities  stretches  an  almost  unbroken  series  of  mountain  ranges, 
a  poverty-stricken  territory  given  over  to  grazing  and  wine-pro- 
duction, and  little  known  to  tourists,  for  the  railway  sweeps  in  a 
great  half-circle  around  the  northern  end  of  the  barrier.  A  few  miles 
from  the  university  town  the  highway  began  a  winding  ascent  in 
Simplon-like  solitude,  save  where  a  vineyard  clung  to  a  wrinkled  hill- 
side. At  such  spots  tall,  cone-shaped  buckets  of  some  two  bushels' 
capacity  stood  at  the  roadside,  some  filled  with  grapes,  others  with 
the  floating  pulp  left  by  the  crushers. 

What  species  of  crusher  was  used  I  did  not  learn  until  nearly  night- 
fall. Then,  suddenly  rounding  a  jutting  boulder,  I  stepped  into  a 
group  of  four  women,  their  skirts  tied  tightly  around  their  loins, 
slowly  treading  up  and  down  in  as  many  buckets  of  grapes.  One  of 
them,  a  young  woman  by  no  means  unattractive,  sprang  out  of  the 
bucket  with  a  startled  gasp,  let  fall  her  skirts  over  legs  purple  with 
grape- juicQ  far  above  the  knees,  and  fled  to  the  vineyard.    Her  com- 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  57 

panions,  too  young  or  too  old  to  find  immodesty  in  the  situation, 
gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  fleeing  girl  and  continued  to  stamp  slowly 
up  and  down. 

Darkness  overtook  me  in  the  solitude  of  an  upper  range,  far  from 
either  hut  or  hamlet.  A  half  hour  later,  a  mountain  storm  burst  upon 
me. 

An  interminable  period  I  had  plunged  on  when  my  eyes  were  grad- 
ually drawn  to  a  faint  light  flickering  through  the  downpour,  I 
splashed  forward  and  banged  on  a  door  beside  an  illuminated  window. 
The  portal  was  quickly  opened  from  within,  and  I  fell  into  a  tiny 
wine-shop  occupied  by  three  tipplers.  They  stared  stupidly  for  some 
time,  while  the  water  ran  away  from  me  in  rivulets  along  the  floor. 
Then  the  landlord  remarked  with  a  silly  grin:  — 

"Lei  e  tutto  bagnato?"     (You  are  all  wet.) 

"  Likewise  hungry,"  I  answered.     "  What 's  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Da  mangiare !     Ma !     Not  a  thing  in  the  house." 

"  The  nearest  inn  ?  " 

"  Six  miles  on." 

"  Suppose  I  must  go  to  bed  supperless,  then,"  I  sighed,  drawing 
my  water-soaked  bundle  from  beneath  my  coat.     • 

"  Bed !  "  cried  the  landlord,  "  you  cannot  sleep  here.  I  keep  no 
lodging  house." 

"  What !  "  I  protested,  "  do  you  think  I  am  going  on  in  this  deluge  ?  " 

"  I  keep  no  lodging  house,"  repeated  the  host,  doggedly. 

I  sat  down  on  a  bench,  convinced  that  no  three  Italians  should  evict 
me  without  a  struggle.  One  by  one  they  came  forward  to  try  the 
efiicacy  of  wheedling,  growling,  and  loud-voiced  bluster.  I  clung 
stolidly  to  my  place.  The  landlord  was  on  the  verge  of  tears  when 
one  of  the  countrymen  drew  me  to  the  window  and  offered  me  lodging 
in  his  barn  across  the  way.  I  made  out  through  the  storm  the  dim 
outline  of  a  building,  and  catching  up  my  bundle,  dashed  with  the 
native  across  the  road  and  into  a  stone  building,  with  no  other  floor, 
as  I  could  feel  under  my  feet,  than  Mother  Earth.  An  American 
cow  would  balk  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  a  mountain  peasant  of 
Italy;  she  would  have  fled  bellowing  at  a  glimpse  of  the  interior  of 
the  bam  that  loomed  up  as  my  host  lighted  a  lantern,  and  pointed  out  to 
me  a  heap  of  corn-husks  in  a  corner  behind  the  oxen  and  asses.  Fear- 
ful of  losing  a  moment  with  his  cronies  over  the  wine,  he  gave  the 
lantern  a  shake  that  extinguished  it  and,  leaving  me  in  utter  darkness, 
hurried  away. 


58      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

I  groped  /  way  towards  the  heap,  narrowly  escaped  knocking 
down  the  last  ass  in  the  row,  and  was  about  to  throw  myself  down 
on  the  husks  when  a  man's  voice  at  my  very  feet  shouted  a  word  that 
I  did  not  catch.     Being  in  Italy  I  answered  in  Italian : 

''  Che  avete  ?    Voglio  dormire  qui." 

"  Ach !  "  groaned  the  voice.     **  Nur  ein  verdammter  Italiener  !  " 

"  Here  friend !  "  I  protested,  in  German,  prodding  the  prostrate  form 
with  a  foot,  "  who  are  you  calHng  verdammter  ?  " 

Before  the  last  word  had  passed  my  lips  the  man  in  the  husks 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  wild  shout. 

"  Lieber  Gott !  "  he  shrieked,  clutching  at  my  coat  and  dancing 
around  me.  "  Lieber  Gott !  Du  verstehst  Deutsch !  You  are  no 
cursed  Italian !  Gott  sei  dank !  In  three  weeks  I  have  heard  no 
German." 

Even  the  asses  were  protesting  before  he  ceased  his  shouting  and 
settled  down  to  tell  his  troubles.  He  was  but  another  of  those  familiar 
figures,  a  German  on  his  Wander jahr,  who,  straying  far  south  in  the 
peninsula,  and  losing  his  last  copper,  was  struggling  northward  again 
as  rapidly  as  strength  gained  by  a  crust  of  bread  or  a  few  wayside 
berries  each  day  permitted.  One  needed  only  to  touch  him  to  know 
that  he  was  thin  as  a  side-show  skeleton.  I  offered  him  the  half  of  a 
cheese  I  carried  in  a  pocket,  and  he  snatched  it  with  the  ravenous 
cry  of  a  wolf  and  devoured  it  as  we  burrowed  deep  into  the  husks. 

All  night  long  the  water  dripped  from  my  elbows  and  oozed  out 
of  my  shoes,  and  a  bitter  mountain  wind  swept  through  the  unmortared 
building.  Morning  came  after  little  sleep,  and  I  rose  with  joints  so 
stiff  that  a  half  hour  of  kneading  barely  put  them  in  working  order. 
Outside  a  cold  drizzle  was  falling,  but  the  peasant  grew  surly,  and, 
bidding  farewell  to  my  companion  of  the  night,  I  set  out  along  the 
mountain  highway. 

Two  hours  beyond  the  barn  I  came  upon  a  miserable  hamlet,  paused 
at  an  even  more  miserable  inn  for  a  bowl  of  greasy  water,  alias  soup, 
in  which  had  been  drowned  a  lump  of  black  bread,  and  plodded  on  in 
the  drizzle.  A  night  and  day  of  corn-husks  had  given  me  a  rococo 
appearance  that  I  only  half  suspected  before  my  arrival  at  a  mountain 
village  late  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  a  typical  Apennine  town;  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  splendid  scenery,  but  itself  a  crowded  collec- 
tion of  hovels  where  steep,  narrow  streets  reeked  with  all  the  refuse  of 
a  common  habitation  of  man  and  beast.  ^  The  chief  enigma  of  Italy 


Going  for  the  water.     A  village  north  of  Rome 


Italy  is  one  of  the  most  cruelly  priest-ridden  countries  On  the  globe 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  59 

is  to  know  why  ostensibly  sane  humans  choose  to  house  themselves  in 
an  agglomeration  of  stys,  as  near  each  other  as  they  can  be  stacked, 
the  outside  huts  jostling  and  crowding  their  neighbors,  as  if  enviously 
waiting  to  catch  them  off  their  guard,  that  they  may  push  nearer  to 
the  center  of  the  unsavory  jumble ;  while  round  about  them  spread 
great  valleys  and  hillsides  uninhabited. 

Wallowing  through  the  filth  of  such  a  hamlet,  I  came  upon  a  tumble- 
down hostelry  of  oppressive  squalor.  About  the  fire-place  were  hud- 
dled several  slatternly,  down-cast  mortals.  I  paused  in  the  doorway, 
wondering  to  which  to  address  myself.  The  rural  innkeeper  of  Italy 
will  never  speak  to  a  new  arrival  until  he  has  been  accosted  by  the 
latter.  I  once  put  the  matter  to  the  test  by  entering  an  inn  at  five  in 
the  afternoon  and  taking  a  seat  at  one  of  the  tables.  Many  a  side 
glance  was  cast  upon  me,  many  a  low-toned  discussion  raged  at  the 
back  of  the  room,  but  at  nine  in  the  evening  I  was  still  waiting  for  the 
first  greeting. 

Here,  then,  I  stood  for  several  moments  on  the  threshold.  At 
length,  a  misshapen  female,  unkempt  and  unsoaped  to  all  appearances 
since  infancy,  fumbled  in  her  apron,  rose,  and  stumped  slowly  towards 
me  holding  out  —  a  cent!  I  stepped  back,  and  the  charitable  lady, 
misunderstanding  my  gesture  of  protest,  returned  to  her  seat,  snarling 
in  a  cracked  falsetto  that  beggars  nowadays  expected  francs  instead  of 
soldi. 

Disgusted  at  this  invidious  reception,  I  pigeon-holed  my  appetite  and 
marched  on.  But  I  seemed  permanently  to  have  taken  on  the  aspect 
of  an  eleemosynary  appeal.  Two  miles  beyond  the  village  I  passed  a 
ragged  road-repairer  and  a  boy,  breaking  stone  at  the  wayside.  Hard 
by  them  was  a  hedge,  weighed  down  with  blackberries,  to  which  I 
hastened  and  fell  to  picking  my  delayed  dinner.  The  cantoniere  stared 
a  moment,  open-mouthed ;  laid  aside  his  sledge,  and  mumbled  something 
to  the  boy.  The  latter  left  his  place,  wandered  down  the  road  a  short 
distance  beyond  me  and  idled  about  as  if  awaiting  someone.  With  a 
half-filled  cap  I  set  off  again.  The  boy  edged  nearer  as  I  approached 
and,  brushing  against  me,  thrust  something  under  my  arm  and  ran  back 
to  the  stone-pile.  In  my  astonishment  I  dropped  the  gift  on  the  high- 
way. It  was  a  quarter-loaf  of  black  bread  left  over  from  the  ragged 
workman's  dinner. 

Late  that  night  I  reached  a  hamlet  with  a  more  energetic,  if  less  char- 
itable innkeeper ;  and  the  next  afternoon  found  me  looking  down  upon 


6o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  vast  Florentine  valley,  the  winding  Arno  a  bluish  silver  under  the 
declining  sun.  By  evening  I  was  housed  in  the  city  of  Dante  and 
Michael  Angelo. 

During  four  days  in  Florence  I  played  a  sort  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde  role, 
living  with  the  poorest  self-supporting  class,  but  spending  hours  each 
day  in  cathedral  and  galleries.  Paupers  were  everywhere  in  evidence, 
fewer  than  in  Venice,  perhaps,  for  here  they  could  escape.  Lodgings 
all  but  the  utterly  penniless  could  afford.  I  paid  a  half-franc  daily  for 
an  uncramped  chamber  within  a  hop,  skip,  and  jump  of  the  roasting- 
place  of  Savonarola.  But  those  ultracheap  eating  houses  of  the  canal 
city  were  lacking.  Florentines  on  the  ragged  edge  patronized  instead 
a  species  of  traveling  restaurant.  As  night  fell,  there  appeared  at  va- 
rious corners,  in  the  unwashed  section  of  the  city,  men  with  push-carts 
laden  with  boiled  tripe.  Around  them  gathered  jostling  throngs  whose 
surging  ceased  not  for  a  moment  until  the  last  morsel  had  been  sold. 
Each  customer  seemed  to  possess  but  a  single  soldo,  which  he  had  care- 
fully guarded  through  the  day  in  anticipation  of  the  coming  of  the 
tripe-man.  Never  did  the  huckster  make  a  sale  without  a  quarrel 
arising  over  the  size  of  the  morsel;  and  never  did  the  vendee  retire 
until  a  second  strip,  about  the  size  of  a  match,  had  been  added  to  the 
original  portion  to  make  up  what  he  claimed  to  be  the  just  weight. 

I  spent  an  undue  proportion  of  my  fourth  day  in  Florence  viewing 
her  works  of  art ;  for  Sunday  is  the  poor  man's  day  in  the  museums  and 
galleries  of  Europe,  there  being  no  admission  charged.  When  the 
throng  was  driven  forth  from  the  Pitti  palace  in  the  late  afternoon,  I 
decided  not  to  return  to  my  lodging  and  wandered  off  along  the  high- 
way to  Rome.  The  mountain  country  continued,  but  the  ranges  were 
less  lofty  and  more  thickly  populated  than  to  the  north,  and  when  night 
settled  down,  I  was  within  sight  of  a  hilltop  village. 

It  is  doubtful  if  there  is  another  nation  on  the  globe  whose  people 
are  such  general  favorites  as  our  own  citizens.  The  American  is  a 
popular  fellow  in  almost  every  land,  certainly  not  the  least  so  in  Italy. 
Through  all  the  peninsula  there  hovers  about  one,  from  that  —  to  the 
Italian  —  magic  world  of  America,  a  glamor  which  is  sure  to  arouse 
interest  to  the  highest  pitch.  More  than  that;  there  is,  among  the 
lower  classes,  an  attitude  almost  of  deference  towards  the  man  in  any 
way  connected  with  the  El  Dorado  across  the  sea,  as  if  every  breast 
harbored  the  vague  hope  that  this  favored  of  the  gods  might  be  moved 
to  carry  home  on  his  return  a  pocketful  of  his  admirers. 

Longing  for  America,  however,  does  not  imply  any  great  amount 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  6i 

of  knowledge  thereof.  In  this  northern  section  especially,  where  one 
rarely  meets  a  man  whose  remotest  friend  has  emigrated,  ignorance 
of  the  western  hemisphere  is  astonishing. 

An  average  village  crowd,  showing  some  evidence  of  education, 
was  gathered  in  the  hostelry  of  this  first  town  beyond  Florence.  My 
arrival  at  first  aroused  small  interest  in  the  groups  before  fire-place 
and  table.  In  ordering  supper,  however,  I  betrayed  a  foreign  accent. 
Immediately  there  passed  between  the  cronies  of  the  band  sundry 
nods  and  occult  signs  which  they  fondly  believed  were  entirely  incom- 
prehensible to  a  newcomer,  but  which,  in  reality,  said  as  plainly  as 
words : — 

"  Now  where  the  deuce  do  you  suppose  he  comes  from  ?  " 

I  volunteered  no  information.  The  cronies  squirmed  with  curiosity. 
Several  more  mysterious  symbols  flitted  across  the  room,  and  one  of  the 
tipplers,  clearing  his  throat,  suggested  in  the  mildest  of  tones : — 

"  Hem  —  ah  —  you  are  German,  perhaps  ?  " 

A  tedesco  being  no  unusual  sight  in  Italy,  the  listeners  showed  only 
a  moderate  interest. 

"  No." 

The  speaker  rubbed  his  neck  with  a  horny  hand  and  turned  an  apolo- 
getic eye  on  his  fellows. 

"  Hah !     You  are  an  Austrian !  "  charged  another,  with  a  scowl. 

"  No." 

"  Swiss  ?  "  suggested  a  third. 

"  No." 

Interest  picked  up  at  once.  A  voyager  from  any  but  these  three 
countries  is  something  to  attract  unusual  attention  in  wayside  inns. 

"  Ah !  "  ventured  a  fourth  member  of  the  group,  with  a  glance  of 
scorn  at  his  more  obtuse  companions,  **  You  are  a  Frenchman  ? " 

*  No." 

The  geographical  knowledge  of  the  party  was  exhausted.  There 
ensued  a  long,  wrinkle-browed  silence.  The  landlady  wandered  in  with 
a  pot,  looked  me  over  out  of  a  corner  of  her  eye,  and  retreated  slowly. 
The  suspense  grew  unendurable.  A  native  opened  his  mouth  twice 
or  thrice,  swallowed  his  breath  with  a  gulp,  and  purred,  meekly : 

"  Er  —  well  —  what  country  does  the  signore  come  from  ?  " 

"  Sono  americano." 

A  chorus  of  exclamations  aroused  the  cat  dozing  under  the  fire-place. 
The  hostess  ran  in,  open-mouthed,  from  the  back  room.  The  landlord 
dropped  his  pipe  on  the  floor  and  emitted  the  Italian  variation  of 


62      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  dew  tell ! "  The  most  phlegmatic  of  the  party  abandoned  their 
games  and  stories  and  crowded  closely  around  me. 

My  advent  seemed  to  two  of  the  habitues  to  be  providential.  Some 
time  before,  a  wager  had  been  laid  between  them  which,  till  now,  there 
had  seemed  small  chance  of  deciding.  One  man  had  wagered  that  the 
railway  trains  of  America  run  high  up  in  the  air  above  the  houses,  a 
tenet  which  he  sought  to  defend  against  all  comers  by  an  unprecedented 
amount  of  lusty  bellowing,  and  one  which  his  opponent  pooh-poohed 
with  equal  vehemence.  For  a  time  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  his 
claim  that  he  had  read  the  information  in  a  newspaper.  In  the  course 
of  his  vociferations,  however,  he  mentioned  "  Nuova  York,"  and  in- 
quired if  it  were  not  also  true  that  its  buildings  were  higher  than  the 
steeple  of  the  village  church,  and  whether  the  railways  were  not  thus 
built  to  enable  the  people  to  get  into  such  high  houses ;  implying,  evi- 
dently, his  conviction  that  Americans  never  come  down  to  earth.  Only 
then  was  the  source  of  his  mental  picture  of  an  aerial  railway  system 
clear.  He  had  read  somewhere  of-  the  New  York  Elevated  and  had 
applied  the  article  to  the  whole  country. 

Moreover  "  Nuova  York  "  was  synonomous  with  America  to  the 
entire  party.  Not  a  man  of  them  knew  that  there  were  two  Americas, 
not  one  had  ever  heard  the  term  ''  United  States."  America  represents 
to  the  Italian  of  the  masses  a  country  somewhere  far  away,  how  far 
or  in  what  direction  he  has  no  idea,  where  wages  are  higher  than  in 
Italy.  Countless  times  I  have  heard  questions  such  as  these  from 
Italians  who  were  not  without  education : — 

"  Is  America  further  away  than  Switzerland  ?  " 

"  Did  you  walk  all  the  way  from  America  ?  '* 

"  Who  is  king  of  America?  " 

"  Why !  Are  you  a  native  American  ?  I  thought  Americans  were 
black !  " 

Once  a  woman  added  insult  to  injury  by  inquiring  in  all  sincerity : — 

"  In  America  you  worship  the  sun,  non  e  vero?" 

On  some  rare  occasions  a  wiser  native  appeared,  to  display  his  erudi- 
tion to  the  assembly.  One  evening  I  mildly  suggested  that  the  United 
States  as  a  whole  is  as  large,  if  not  larger,  than  Italy.  My  hearers 
were  deafening  me  with  shouts  of  derision,  when  one  of  the  party  came 
to  my  rescue. 

**  Certainly,  that 's  right !  "  he  cried,  "  it  is  larger.  I  have  a  brother 
in  Buenos  Ayres  and  I  know.     America^  or  the  Stati  Uniti,  as  this 


TRAMPING  IN  ITALY  63 

signore  prefers  to  call  it,  has  provinces  just  like  Italy.  The  provinces 
are  Brazil,  Uruguay,  Republica  Argentina,  and  Nuova  York." 

Squelched  by  which  crushing  display  of  geographical  erudition,  the 
gathering  maintained  a  profound  silence  for  the  rest  of  the  evening; 
and  the  authority  on  America  began  a  lecture  on  that  topic,  in  the 
course  of  which  I  learned  many  a  fact  concerning  my  native  land  which 
I  had  never  suspected. 

One  can  be  little  surprised  that  the  Italian  fears  to  embark  for  a 
country  so  little  known.  I  met  often  with  people  who  had  set  out  for 
America,  gone  as  far  as  Genoa,  and  there  abandoned  the  journey,  perche 
aveva  paura.  Many,  indeed,  journey  to  the  seaport,  never  suspecting 
that  to  reach  this  land  of  fabulous  wealth  they  must  travel  on  the 
ocean ;  more  than  one  has  only  the  vaguest  notion  of  what  an  ocean  is. 
When  the  endless  expanse  of  water  stretches  out  before  them,  all  the 
combined  miseries  of  their  native  land  and  the  wheedling  of  the  most 
silver-tongued  steamship  agent  cannot  induce  them  to  trust  themselves 
on  its  billows;  and  in  dread  and  fear  they  hurry  home  again. 

It  may  be  said  with  little  danger  of  error,  too,  that  the  average 
American  knows  very  little  of  the  Italian  of  this  northern  section.  He 
is,  quite  contrary  to  popular  notions,  a  very  kind  and  obliging,  even 
unselfish  fellow,  decidedly  a  different  person  from  the  usual  immi- 
grant to  our  shores.  The  riffraff  and  oft'-casts  of  their  native  land, 
that  are  spreading  far  and  wide  in  our  country,  living  in  clans  and 
bands  wherein  the  moving  spirit  seems  to  be  he  whose  record  at  home 
is  most  besmirched,  the  "  dagoes  "  of  common  parlance,  are  no  prod- 
uct of  this  northern  portion  of  the  peninsula.  We  have,  possibly, 
been  too  quick  to  attribute  to  all  Italians  the  characteristics  of  those 
undesirables  with  whom  we  have  come  in  contact,  more  than  seven- 
eighths  of  whom  hail  from  the  southern  section.  The  Neapolitan,  the 
Sicilian,  the  Sardinian,  from  lands  where  congested  districts  breed  char- 
acters held  in  as  much  contempt  by  the  Italian  of  the  north  as  by  our 
own  citizens,  have  little  in  common  with  the  Venetian,  the  Florentine, 
and  the  Sienese. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   BORDERS   OF   THE    MEDITERRANEAN 

THERE  are  few  stretches  of  roadway  in  Italy  that  wind 
through  finer  scenery  than  that  panorama  which  spreads  out 
along  the  highway  between  Florence  and  Siena,  The  pedes- 
trian, however,  finds  small  opportunity  to  contemplate  the  landscape, 
for  his  progress  is  beset  with  strange  perils.  Each  peasant  of  this 
section  possesses  a  yoke  of  white  oxen,  a  bovine  type  indigenous  to 
the  Apennine  region,  the  distinguishing  feature  of  which  is  the  length 
of  the  horns,  measuring  often  six  and  even  seven  feet  from  tip  to  tip. 
Now  meet  two  such  beasts,  yoked  together,  and  it  is  a  wide  highway 
that  leaves  you  room  to  pass.  Moreover,  their  drivers  being  invariably 
sound  asleep,  the  animals  wander  at  sweet  will  about  the  right  of  way, 
tossing  their  heads  toward  the  passer-by.  When  one  considers  that 
every  twenty  or  twenty-five  acres  through  this  territory  constitutes  a 
farm,  that  every  farmer  has  his  pair  of  oxen,  and  that  he  does  his 
best  to  lay  out  his  work  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  him  the  greatest 
possible  amount  of  time  on  the  road,  leaving  real  labor  to  his  wife  and 
daughters,  it  is  easily  understood  that  to  make  one's  way  on  foot,  re- 
quires no  mean  amount  of  vigilance,  nimbleness,  and  endurance. 

Nor  is  that  all.  On  every  highway  of  Europe  the  wayfarer  must 
be  always  on  the  alert  for  the  sound  of  an  automobile  horn.  Conti- 
nental chaufifeurs  have  small  respect  for  foot-travelers,  and  the  pedes- 
trian who  does  not  heed  their  imperative  honk  is  quite  apt  to  come  into 
collision  with  a  touring-car  moving  at  its  highest  rate  of  speed.  Now 
the  first  note  of  protest  of  an  over-burdened  ass  bears  a  similarity  to 
the  toot  of  an  automobile  horn  that  can  scarcely  be  accounted  for  un- 
der the  head  of  coincidences.  Moreover,  the  time  ensuing  between  the 
first  and  second  notes  is  quite  long  enough  for  a  car  to  shoot  around 
a  corner,  send  the  unobserving  wanderer  skyward,  and  disappear  into 
the  gasoline-saturated  Beyond.  In  consequence,  my  journey  from 
Florence  to  Siena  was  no  pleasure  stroll ;  for  when  I  was  not  vaulting 
roadside  hedges  before  oncoming  oxen,  I  was  crouching  on  the  edge 

64 


'* 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  65 

of  the  highway,  peering  anxiously  round  a  turn  of  the  route  until  a 
second  asinine  vocable  broke  on  my  ear. 

He  who  would  obtain  an  exact  idea  of  the  ensemble  of  the  city  of 
Siena  has  but  to  dump  a  spoonful  of  sugar  on  a  well-heaped  dish 
of  rice.  Some  of  the  grains  remain  at  the  very  top  of  the  heap,  others 
cling  tenaciously  to  the  sides  as  if  fearful  of  falling  to  the  bottom  into 
the  dish  itself.  For  rice,  read  a  rocky  hill ;  for  sugar,  houses ;  for  dish, 
a  broad,  fertile  valley  in  which  space  is  unhmited,  and  the  visualization 
of  Siena  is  complete.  Except  in  that  small  quarter  on  the  flat  summit 
of  the  hill  it  is  one  of  those  up-and-down  towns  in  which  streets  should 
be  fitted  with  ladders;  where  every  householder  is  in  imminent  dan- 
ger, each  time  he  steps  out  of  doors,  of  falling  into  the  next  block, 
should  he  inadvertently  lose  his  grip  on  the  fagade  of  his  dwelling.  I 
scaled  the  city  without  being  reduced  to  the  indignity  of  making  the 
ascent  on  hands  and  knees ;  but  more  than  once  I  kept  my  place  only 
by  clutching  at  the  flanking  buildings. 

How  little  the  knowledge  of  the  world  among  the  masses  of  Italy 
has  increased,  since  the  days  of  Columbus,  was  suggested  during  my 
evening  in  the  perennial  inn  at  the  summit  of  the  town.  Engaged  in 
a  game  of  "  dama  "  (checkers)  with  the  innkeeper's  small  daughter, 
I  strove  at  the  same  time  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  host  himself 
and  a  band  of  strolling  musicians,  of  whom  a  blind  youth  accompanied 
both  game  and  conversation  on  a  soft-voiced  vioHn. 

"  When  you  go  to  America,"  asked  the  innkeeper,  pointing  out  a 
move  to  my  opponent,  "  you  get  clear  out  of  sight  of  land,  non  e  vero  ?  " 

I  admitted  that  such  experiences  were  common. 

"  Ah,  I  once  thought  of  going  to  America,"  he  cried,  turning  to  im- 
ress  upon  the  attentive  audience  his  fearlessness  in  having  dared  to 
conceive  so  intrepid  a  venture,  "  until  they  told  me  that.  But  you 
would  n't  catch  me  on  a  boat  that  went  clear  out  of  sight  of  land.  I 
don't  mind  a  trip  from  Genoa  to  Naples,  or  even  to  Bastia,  where  you 
always  have  the  coast  alongside ;  but  when  you  leave  the  land  and  jump 
out  into  the  universe,  steering  by  the  stars  and  going  —  La  Santissima 
Vergine  knows  where  —  ah,  not  for  me!  Why,  suppose  the  captain 
loses  his  way  when  the  stars  move?  You  come  to  the  edge  of  the 
world  and  over  you  go.     Ugh !  " 

The  audience  shuddered  in  sympathy,  and  the  blind  youth  drew  forth 
from  his  instrument  a  wail  such  as  might  have  risen  from  the  victims 
of  so  dreadful  a  fate. 

By  the  time  a  new  topic  had  been  broached  the  hostess  wandered 

5 


66      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

in  and  sat  down  before  the  register  in  which  I  had  written  my  auto- 
biography.    Her  eyes  fell  on  the  figures  indicating  my  age. 

"Aha!"  she  cried,  jabbing  the  number  with  a  stubby  forefinger 
and  winking  good-humoredly,  "  soldiering  is  hard  work,  to  be  sure.  I 
don't  blame  you  a  bit.     Officers  are  hard  masters." 

I  had  too  often  been  accused  of  running  away  to  escape  military 
service  to  be  at  all  put  out  by  this  familiar  accusation. 

"  Many  a  boy  I  know,"  went  on  the  woman,  "  has  run  away  to 
America  just  before  he  reached  his  majority  and  the  beginning  of  his 
three  years  in  the  army.  How  strange  you  Americans  should  fly  over 
here  to  Italy  for  the  same  reason !  " 

"  You  bet  /  don't  blame  them,"  growled  the  innkeeper. 

"  But  military  service  is  not  required  in  America,"  I  protested. 

"  Eh !  "  cried  my  hearers,  in  chorus. 

"  We  don't  have  to  be  soldiers  in  America,"  I  repeated. 

"  What !  "  shouted  the  host,  "  you  have  no  army  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  the  soldiers  are  hired,  as  for  any  other  trade." 

"  But  who  makes  them  go  ?  "  demanded  the  blind  musician. 

"  No  one.     They  are  paid  to  go." 

The  audience  puzzled  for  several  moments  over  this  strange  ar- 
rangement.    Suddenly  the  landlady  burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  think  to  fool  us ! "  she  cried.  "  How,  if  nobody  makes 
them  go,  can  there  be  soldiers  to  pay  ?  " 

"  Aye !     That 's  it !  "  roared  the  host. 

"  They  want  to  go,"  I  explained. 

"  Want  to  be  soldiers ! "  bellowed  the  Innkeeper.  *'  What  non- 
sense !     Who  wants  to  be  a  soldier  and  work  three  years  for  nothing?  " 

"  But  you  don't  understand.  Those  who  want  to  be  soldiers  are 
paid  wages." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  the  musician,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  inspiration,  '*  when 
your  name  is  drawn,  you  pay  a  man  to  go  for  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  government  pays  him.     Our  names  are  not  drawn." 

"  How  much  money  the  king  must  spend,  paying  all  the  soldiers," 
mused  my  opponent. 

"  Ah !  They  are  a  strange  people,  the  Americans,"  sighed  the  host, 
and  he  cast  upon  me  a  glance  that  seemed  to  say,  "  and  liars,  too,  very 
often." 

Weeks  before,  I  had  given  up  all  hope  of  making  clear  to  Italians  our 
military  system.  The  institution  of  compulsory  service  has  been  so 
woven  into  their  picture  of  life  since  infancy  that  barely  a  man  of  them 


Selling  the  famous  long-horned  cattle  of  Siena  outside  the  walls 


Italian  peasants  returning  from  market-day  in  the  communal  village 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  67 

has  the  power  of  imagining  an  existence  without  this  omnipresent  fate 
hanging  over  his  head.  Whatever  may  be  the  attitude  of  the  educated 
ItaHan  towards  it,  military  service  is  regarded  by  the  laboring  class  as  a 
curse  from  which  there  is  no  escape.-  We  are  accustomed  t©  say  that 
nothing  is  sure  but  death  and  taxes.  The  Italian  would  include  con- 
scription. 

Two  days  after  leaving  Siena,  I  turned  out  in  the  early  morning 
from  Viterbo,  just  fifty  miles  north  of  Rome.  Strange  to  say,  in 
measure  as  I  approached  the  capital  the  less  inhabited  became  the 
countryside.  For  hours  beyond  Viterbo  the  highway  wound  over  low 
mountains  between  whispering  forests,  in  utter  solitude.  Where  the 
woods  ended,  stretched  many  another  weary  mile  with  never  a  hut  by 
the  wayside.  Only  an  occasional  shepherd,  clad  in  sheepskins,  sat 
among  his  flocks  on  a  hillside,  and  gave  life  to  a  landscape  that  sug- 
gested the  wilds  of  Wyoming  or  the  vast  steppes  of  Siberia. 

The  sun  was  touching  the  western  horizon  as  I  traversed  a  rugged 
village,  but  with  Rome  so  close  at  hand  I  pressed  on.  The  hamlet, 
however,  appeared  to  be  the  last  habitation  of  man  along  the  highway. 
The  sun  sank  in  an  endless  morass,  amid  the  whispering  of  great  fields 
of  reeds  and  grasses,  and  the  dismal  croaking  of  frogs.  Twilight  faded 
to  black  night.  Far  off,  ahead,  the  reflection  of  the  Eternal  City 
lighted  up  the  sky ;  yet  hours  of  tramping  seemed  to  bring  the  glow  not 
a  yard  nearer. 

Forty-one  miles  I  had  covered  when  three  hovels  rose  up  by  the 
wayside.  One  was  an  inn,  but  the  keeper  growled  out  some  protest 
and  slammed  the  door  in  my  face.  I  took  refuge  and  broke  an  all- 
day  fast  in  a  wine-shop  patronized  by  traveling  teamsters,  one  of  whom 
offered  me  a  bed  on  his  load  of  straw  in  the  adjoining  stable. 

He  rose  at  daybreak,  and  for  the  first  few  miles  the  dawdling  pace 
of  his  mules  was  fully  fast  enough  for  my  maltreated  legs.  Little  by 
little  I  forged  ahead.  The  deserted  highway  led  across  a  bleak  moor- 
land, rounded  a  slight  eminence,  and  brought  me  face  to  face  with  the 
once  center  of  the  civiHzed  world. 

To  the  right  and  left,  on  low  hills,  stood  large  modern  buildings, 
from  which  the  mass  of  houses  sloped  down  and  covered  the  interven- 
ing plains,  broken  only  by  the  Tiber  winding  its  way  through  the  dull, 
grey  stretch  of  habitations.  Here  and  there  a  dome  or  steeple  reflected 
the  morning  sun,  but  towering  high  above  the  mass,  dwarfing  all  else 
by  comparison,  stood  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  Close  before  me 
began  an  unbroken  suburb  on  both  sides  of  the  route ;  suggesting  that 


68      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  modern  Roman  builds  only  as  far  from  the  center  of  the  city  as  his 
view  of  it  remains  unimpaired.  Countless  multitudes  have  caught 
their  first  glimpse  of  Rome  from  this  low  hilltop.  Before  the  days  of 
railways,  pilgrims  journeyed  from  Civita  Vecchia,  on  the  coast,  by  this 
same  road  —  millions  of  them  on  foot,  and  entered  the  city  by  this 
massive  western  gateway.  Through  the  portal  poured  a  steady  stream 
of  peasants,  on  wagons,  carts,  donkeys,  and  afoot,  checked  by  officers 
'  of  the  octroi,  who  ran  long  lances  through  bales  and  baskets  of  farm 
produce.     I  joined  the  surging  bedlam  and  was  swept  within  the  walls. 

Early  that  afternoon  I  made  my  way  across  the  Tiber  and  through 
I  the  narrow  streets  of  the  Borgo  to  the  square  before  St.  Peter's.  About 
the  papal  residence  the  carriages  of  le  beau  monde  kept  up  continual 
procession.  I  threaded  my  way  towards  the  entrance  to  the  Vatican 
galleries,  though  with  little  hope  that  one  who  had  been  taken  for  a 
beggar  in  the  miserable  villages  of  the  Apennines  could  get  beyond 
the  door.  At  the  base  of  the  stairway  a  Swiss  guard,  resplendent  in 
that  red  and  yellow  uniform  which  Michael  Angelo  is  accused  of  hav- 
ing perpetrated,  raised  his  javehn  and  accosted  me  in  German : — 

"Sorry,  Landsmann,  but  the  galleries  are  just  closing;  it  is  one 
o'clock." 

Taking  the  speech  as  a  polite  way  of  saying  that  tramps  were  not 
admitted,  I  turned  away.  Another  glance,  however,  showed  that  vis- 
itors really  were  leaving,  and  a  "  hist "  from  behind  called  me  back. 
The  guard,  glancing  around  to  see  if  he  were  observed  by  the  other 
servants  of  the  Holy  Father,  leaned  on  his  lance  and  inquired  in  a  low 
voice : — 

"  How  's  business  on  the  road  these  days?  " 

He  had,  it  turned  out,  once  been  a  penniless  wanderer  in  nearly  every 
corner  of  the  continent.  For  some  time  we  chatted  in  the  jargon  of 
**  the  road,"  that  language  made  up  of  a  mixture  of  slang  and  gestures 
that  one  can  learn  only  by  tramping  the  highways  of  Europe.  The 
guard  smiled  reminiscently  at  each  mention  of  the  rendezvous  of 
vagrants  to  the  north,  and,  having  heard  such  bits  of  news  from  the 
field  of  action  as  I  could  give  him,  carefully  outlined  for  me  the  va- 
rious "  grafts  "  of  the  Roman  fraternity.  A  companion  in  office  called 
to  him  from  the  top  of  the  steps  and  he  hurried  away  with  the  parting 
injunction : — 

"  Come  to-morrow,  mein  Lieber,  early,  if  you  want  to  see  the  gal- 
leries." 

When  I  had  inspected  the  interior  of  St.  Peter's  I  sought  out  the 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  69 

rendezvous  to  which  the  guard  had  directed  me.  A  dozen  birds  of 
passage  around  the  wine-tables  greeted  my  entrance  in  several  lan- 
guages :— 

"  Ha !     En  voila  un  de  plus !  " 

"  Woher,  Landsmann  ?    Was  gibt's  neues  ?  " 

"  Y  que  tal  la  carretera,  hombre  ?  " 

"  Madre  di  dio,  amico,  che  fa  caldo !     Vuoi  bere  ?  " 

I  sipped  the  glass  of  wine  offered  by  the  Italian  —  to  have  drunk  it 
all  would  have  been  **  bad  form  " —  and  sat  down  to  give  an  account 
of  myself. 

"  Aber  du  bist  kein  Deutscher  ?  "  cried  a  grizzled  vagabond,  when  I 
had  finished. 

"  Amerikaner,"  I  replied. 

"  American ! "  shouted  the  band,  in  a  chorus  in  which  European 
tongues  ran  riot,  "  Why,  there  is  another  American  knocking  about 
town.      He  '11  drop  in  before  long ;  meanwhile,  have  a  drink." 

I  waited  impatiently,  for  months  had  passed  since  I  had  spoken  with 
a  fellow  countryman.  In  the  course  of  a  half-hour  there  strolled  in  a 
swarthy  specimen  of  the  genus  vagabundus,  attired  in  a  ragged  misfit. 

"  Ach !  Du  Amerikaner !  "  cried  the  chorus.  "  Here  is  a  country- 
man of  yours." 

I  accosted  the  newcomer.     "  How  are  you,  Jack  ?  " 

He  took  place  on  a  bench,  stared  at  me  a  moment,  and  demanded, 
in  Italian: — 

"  What  country  are  you  from  ?  " 

"  Dei  Stati  Uniti,"  I  replied.  "  But  they  told  me  you  were  an  Amer- 
ican, too." 

"  Certainly  I  am  an  American !  "  he  shouted,  indignantly.  *'  I  come 
from  Buenos  Ayres." 

It  had  been  my  custom  to  ramble  at  random  through  the  cities  of 
Europe,  visiting  the  points  of  special  interest  as  I  chanced  upon  them. 
The  topography  of  Rome,  however,  is  not  of  the  simplest,  and,  having 
picked  up  a  guide-book  for  a  few  soldi  in  a  second-hand  stall,  I  set 
out  dutifully  to  follow  its  lead  through  the  city.  It  was  a  work  in 
Italian,  published  for  the  use  of  Roman  Catholic  pilgrims.  For  two 
days  it  led  me  a  merry  chase  among  the  churches  and  chapels  of  Rome, 
calling  attention  here  to  the  statue  of  a  saint,  the  bronze  foot  of  which 
had  been  kissed  into  a  shapeless  mass  by  devout  pellegrini;  there  to 
a  shrine  in  which  was  enclosed  the  second  bone  of  the  third  finger  of 
the  right  hand  of  some  martyr  or  pope,  or  a  splinter  of  the  true  cross 


70      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

that  had  miraculously  found  its  way  to  Rome.  But  as  I  hurried  from 
chapel  to  church  and  from  church  to  chapel  I  became  suspicious  of 
the  profound  silence  of  the  book's  author,  a  Father  Guiseppe  Some- 
body, on  the  subject  of  the  monuments  of  ancient  Rome.  Having 
therein  more  interest  than  in  martyrs'  bones  and  kissed  statues,  I  sat 
down  on  the  steps  of  the  forty-ninth  church,  and  turned  over  the  leaves 
in  search  of  reference  to  the  old-time  edifices.  Page  after  page  the 
nomenclature  of  churches  and  chapels  continued,  interspersed  with  de- 
scriptions of  more  finger-bones  and  splinters;  but,  up  to  the  last  leaf, 
not  a  word  of  ante-Christian  Rome  and  its  ruins.  On  the  final  page, 
in  a  footnote,  the  devout  author  expressed  himself  as  follows :  — 

"  There  are  in  Rome,  besides  all  the  blessed  relics  and  holy  places  we 
have  pointed  out  to  the  pilgrim,  certain  ruins  and  monuments  of  the 
days  previous  to  the  coming  of  Our  Holy  Saviour.  The  Faithful,  how- 
ever, will  take  care  not  to  defile  themselves  by  visiting  these  remnants 
of  unholy  pagan  and  heathen  Rome." 

I  sold  the  "  Pilgrims'  Guide  "  for  the  price  of  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
set  out  to  explore  the  city  after  my  own  fashion. 

Caesar,  for  some  reason,  has  not  seen  fit  to  inform  posterity  whether 
he  patronized  the  "  Colosseum  Tonsorial  Parlors,"  or  carried  his  own 
razor.  If  he  sallied  forth  for  his  daily  scrape,  times  were  different 
then ;  for,  had  the  conqueror  of  the  Gauls  had  at  hand  such  barbers  as 
modern  Rome  harbors  he  would  certainly  have  turned  Vercingetorix 
over  to  their  tender  mercies  instead  of  subjecting  him  to  the  mild  pun- 
ishment of  an  underground  dungeon. 

There  was  a  shop  not  far  from  the  wayfarers'  retreat  in  the  Borgo. 
Recalling  painful  experiences  elsewhere  in  the  peninsula,  I  avoided  it  as 
long  as  possible,  but  there  came  a  day  when  I  must  sneak  inside  and 
take  a  seat.  That,  to  begin  with,  was  a  mere  chair,  a  decidedly  rickety 
one  that  squeaked  and  writhed  under  me  as  if  afraid,  like  myself,  of 
the  scowling  proprietor,  who  stropped  his  razor  in  the  far  corner.  By 
and  by  he  laid  the  weapon  aside,  and  picking  up  a  small  milk-pan,  re- 
treated to  the  back  of  the  room.  The  only  mirror  in  the  establish- 
ment being  some  five  inches  square,  there  was  no  means  of  knowing 
what  game  he  indulged  in  during  a  prolonged  absence. 

I  had  all  but  fallen  asleep,  stretched  like  a  suspension  bridge  be- 
tween the  chair  and  the  wooden  box  that  did  duty  as  foot-rest,  when  the 
barber,  approaching  stealthily,  slapped  me  suddenly  and  emphatically 
on  the  point  of  the  chin  with  the  brush  of  a  defunct  or  bankrupt  bill- 
poster.    The  blow  was  nothing  compared  with  the  temperature  of  the 


1^ 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  71 

splash  of  lather  that  accompanied  it.  The  cold  chills  set  the  ends  of 
my  toes  tingling.  There  ensued  a  lathering  of  which  no  American  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  spent  all  his  days  in  the  land  of  his  first  milk- 
bottle  can  form  a  conception.  From  ear  to  ear,  from  Adam's  apple 
well  up  my  nostrils,  that  icy  lather  was  slapped  and  rubbed  in  with  the 
paste-brush  and  the  rasp-like  palm  of  the  manipulator,  until  my  first 
notion  that  this  thorough  soaping  was  to  lighten  the  work  with  the 
razor  was  succeeded  by  the  fear  that  my  torturer  had  decided  to  dis- 
pense with  that  instrument  entirely.  When  he  had  covered  all  my  face 
but  one  eye,  the  barber  laid  aside  his  brush,  strolled  to  the  door,  and 
stood  with  his  arms  akimbo,  evidently  to  give  his  biceps  time  to  recover 
from  their  strenuous  exertions. 

A  fellow-townsman  sauntered  by,  and  the  two  fell  into  a  discussion 
that  involved,  not  the  batting  averages  of  the  major  league,  but  the  ad- 
vance of  a  half-cent  a  liter  in  the  price  of  wine.  The  lye  on  my  face 
began  to  draw  and  tingle,  the  chair  groaned  under  me,  and  still  the 
dispute  raged  at  the  door.  Fortunately,  the  townsman  was  called  away 
before  it  was  settled.  The  barber  gazed  after  his  retreating  form, 
hummed  an  opera  air  in  sotto  voce,  and  glanced  at  the  sky  for  signs  of 
a  storm.  Then  he  turned  slowly  around,  stared  frowningly  at  me  for 
several  moments  in  an  effort  to  recall  how  a  man  all  soaped  and  ready 
for  the  razor  had  gotten  into  his  establishment,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
gret at  the  task  before  him,  hunted  up  the  razor,  stropped  it  again  as  if 
it  had  lain  unused  for  six  months,  and  fell  to.  A  hack  at  one  side  of 
my  face  razed  at  least  a  dozen  hairs.  The  torturer  changed  his  mind 
concerning  the  point  of  attack  and  transferred  his  efforts  to  the  other 
side  —  with  no  gratifying  success,  however.  He  began  once  more,  this 
time  at  the  point  of  the  chin,  worked  his  way  upward  by  a  series  of 
cuts  and  slashes,  and,  having  removed  from  my  face  most  of  the  skin,  a 
fair  share  of  the  lather,  and  even  some  of  the  stubble,  stepped  back 
to  survey  his  handiwork. 

"  Here,  you  're  not  finished !  "  I  cried,  pointing  to  my  upper  lip. 

"  What !     Shave  your  lip  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  I  want  it  shaved." 

"  Santissima  Madonna !  "  he  gasped,  making  several  passes  before  a 
chromo  print  of  the  Virgin  on  the  back  wall.  "  Here  is  a  man  who 
wants  the  upper  lip  of  a  woman !  " 

However,  having  called  the  Lady's  attention  to  his  innocence,  he 


^2      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

shaved  the  lip  and  relieved  an  anxiety  under  which  I  had  labored  since 
entering  the  shop.  For,  many  a  barber  of  Italy  had  refused  point- 
blank  to  undertake  any  such  unprecedented  defilement  of  the  human 
face,  and  driven  me  forth  with  a  nascent  moustache  in  spite  of  my  pro- 
tests. 

Nearly  a  week  after  my  arrival  in  the  capital  I  turned  southward 
again,  on  the  highway  to  Naples.  For  three  days  the  route  led  through 
a  territory  packed  with  ragged,  half-starved  people,  who  toiled  inces- 
santly from  the  first  peep  of  the  sun  to  the  last  waver  of  twilight,  and 
crawled  away  into  some  foul  hole  during  the  hours  of  darkness.  The 
inhabitants  of  this  famished  section  bore  little  resemblance  to  the  people 
of  the  north.  Shopkeepers  snarled  at  their  customers,  the  "  short- 
change racket  "  was  always  in  evidence,  false  coins  of  the  smallest  de- 
nomination abounded  —  fancy  "  shoving  the  queer  "  with  nickels  — 
and,  had  not  my  appearance  been  quite  in  keeping  with  that  of  the 
natives,  I  should  certainly  have  won  the  attention  of  those  who  live 
by  violence. 

There  were  other  difficulties  unknown  in  the  north.  The  language 
changed  rapidly.  The  literary  tongue,  spoken  in  Florence  and  Siena, 
was  almost  foreign  here.  A  word  learned  in  one  hamlet  was  incom- 
prehensible in  another  a  half-day  distant.  The  villages,  almost  without 
exception,  were  perched  at  the  summits  of  the  most  inaccessible  hills, 
up  which  each  day's  walk  ended  with  a  weary  climb  by  steep  paths  of 
rubble  that  rolled  underfoot. 

I  found  lodging  at  the  wayside  only  on  my  fourth  day  out  of  Rome, 
in  a  building  that  was  one-fourth  inn  and  three-fourths  stable.  The 
keeper,  his  wife,  and  a  litter  of  children  had  scarcely  enough  wardrobe 
between  them  to  have  completely  clothed  the  smallest  urchin.  All  were 
barefooted,  their  feet  spread  out  nearly  as  wide  as  they  were  long,  the 
thick  callous  of  the  soles  split  and  cracked  up  the  sides  like  the  hoofs 
of  horses  that  had  long  gone  unshod.  The  wife  and  several  of  her 
brood  lay  on  a  heap  of  chaff  in  a  corner  of  the  room  reserved  for  hu- 
mans. The  father  sat  on  a  stool,  bouncing  the  bambino  up  and  down 
on  his  unspeakable  feet ;  another  child  squatted  on  the  top  of  the  four- 
legged  board  that  served  as  table  and,  in  awe  of  the  new  arrival,  al- 
ternately handled  his  toes  and  thrust  his  fingers  in  his  mouth. 

"  You  have  lodgings  for  travelers  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  proprietor. 

"  How  much  for  a  bed  ?  " 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  73 

"  Two  cents." 

I  was  skeptical  and  demanded  to  see  the  lodging  that  could  be  had 
at  such  a  price. 

"  Giovanni !  "  bawled  the  head  of  the  charming  band,  "  bring  in  the 
bed!" 

A  moth-eaten  youth  threw  open  the  back  door  and  fired  at  my  feet  a 
dirty  grain-sack,  filled  with '"crumpled  straw  that  peeped  out  here  and 
there. 

When  I  had  smoked  a  final  pipe,  the  father  bawled  once  more  to  his 
first-born  and  motioned  to  me  to  take  up  my  bed  and  walk.  I  followed 
the  youth  across  a  stable  yard  towards  a  wing  of  the  building,  picking 
my  way  between  the  heaps  of  offal  by  the  light  of  the  feeble  torch  he 
carried.  Giovanni  waded  inside,  pointed  out  to  me  a  long,  narrow 
manger  of  slats,  and  fled,  leaving  me  alone  with  the  problem  of  how 
to  repose  nearly  six  feet  of  body  on  three  feet  of  stuffed  grain-sack. 
I  tried  every  combination  that  ingenuity  and  some  not  entirely  differ- 
ent experiences  could  suggest,  but  concluded  at  last  to  sleep  on  the  bare 
slats  and  use  the  sack  as  a  pillow. 

I  had  just  begun  to  doze,  when  an  outer  door  opened  and  let  in  a  great 
draught  of  night  air,  closely  followed  by  a  flock  of  sheep  that  quickly 
filled  the  stable  to  overflowing.  Some  of  the  animals  attempted  to 
overflow  into  the  manger,  sprang  back  when  they  found  it  already  oc- 
cupied, and  made  known  their  discovery  to  their  companions  by  a  long 
series  of  "  baas."  The  information  awakened  a  truly  Italian  curiosity. 
The  sheep  organized  a  procession  and  the  whole  band  filed  by  the 
manger,  every  animal  poking  its  nose  through  the  slats  for  a  sniff. 
This  formality  over,  each  of  the  flock  expressed  a  personal  opinion 
of  my  presence  in  trembling,  nerve-racking  bleats,  which  discussion 
had  by  no  means  ended,  when  the  youth  came  to  inform  me  that  it  was 
morning  and  carried  off  my  bed,  fearful,  no  doubt,  of  my  absconding 
with  that  valuable  ameublement. 

In  spite  of  the  bruises  on  the  salient  points  of  my  anatomy,  I  plodded 
on  at  a  good  pace,  hoping,  with  this  early  start,  to  reach  Naples  before 
the  day  was  done.  Two  pairs  of  gendarmes,  who  halted  me  for  long 
interviews,  made  the  attempt  useless,  however;  and  I  was  still  in  the 
country  when  the  gloom,  settling  down  like  fog,  drove  into  the  high- 
way bands  of  fatigued  humans  and  four-footed  beasts,  toiling  home- 
ward. The  route  descended,  the  intervening  fields  between  squalid 
villages  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  finally  giving  way  entirely  to  an  un- 


74      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

broken  row  of  stone  houses  that  shut  in  the  highway.  The  bands  of 
homing  peasants  increased  to  a  stream  of  humanity  against  which  I 
struggled  to  make  my  way. 

Swept  into  the  back-water  of  the  human  current,  I  cornered  a  work- 
man and  inquired  for  Naples. 

"  Napoli !     Ma !     This  is  Napoli !  "  he  bellowed,  shoving  me  aside. 

I  plunged  on,  certain  that  a  descending  road  must  lead  to  the  harbor 
and  its  sailors'  lodgings.  Ragged,  sullen-visaged  laborers,  now  and 
then  an  unsoaped  female,  swept  against  me.  Donkeys  laden  and  un- 
laden protested  against  the  goads  of  their  cursing  masters.  Heavy  ox- 
carts, massive  wagons,  an  occasional  horseman,  fought  their  way  up  the 
acclivity,  amid  a  bedlam  of  shrill  shouts,  roaring  oaths,  the  strident  yee- 
hawing  of  asses,  the  rumble  of  wheels  on  cobble-stones,  the  snap  of 
whips,  the  resounding  whack  of  cudgels ;  and  before  and  behind  a  bawl- 
ing multitude  filled  the  scene  that  resembled  nothing  more  nearly  than 
the  hurried  flight  of  its  diabolical  inhabitants  from  that  inferno  which 
the  Florentine  has  pictured.  It  was  long  after  my  first  inquiry  for 
''  Napoli  "  that  I  reached  level  streets  and  was  dragged  into  a  dismal 
hovel  by  a  boarding-house  runner.  Fifty-five  days  had  passed  since  my 
departure  from  Paris,  fhirty-four  of  which  had  been  spent  in  walking. 

If  there  is  a  spot  of  similar  size  in  the  civilized  world  that  houses 
more  rascals,  knaves,  and  degenerates  than  Naples,  it  has  successfully 
hidden  its  iniquities.  The  struggle  for  existence  in  this  densely  packed 
section  of  the  peninsula  has  driven  its  lower  classes  in  one  of  two  di- 
rections: they  have  become  stolid,  unthinking  brutes  or  incorrigible 
rogues.  Even  those  who,  by  day,  are  employed  at  professions  consid- 
ered honorable  and  remunerative  among  us,  spend  their  nights  and  idle 
hours  as  agents  of  every  species  of  business  and  deception  to  be  found 
in  congested  centers.  Every  steamship  office,  every  restaurant,  every 
hotel,  shop,  gambling  den,  or  house  of  prostitution  has  its  scores  of 
**  runners  "  to  entice  the  stranger  or  unwary  citizen  within  its  doors. 
We  have  "  runners  "  in  America,  but  these  procurers  that  fight  for  a 
meager  percentage  in  Naples  are  not  merely  the  dregs  of  city  life ;  even 
the  man  who  has  left  his  telegraph  instrument  or  bookkeeper's  stool 
during  the  afternoon  prowls  through  the  dark  streets  in  quest  of  a  stray 
soldo.  The  barber  roams  at  large  to  drag  into  his  shop  those  whose 
faces  show  need  of  his  services ;  the  merchant  stands  before  his  door 
and  bawls  and  beckons  to  the  passing  throng  like  a  side-show  barker ; 
the  ticket-agent  tramps  up  and  down  the  wharves  striving  to  sell  pas- 
sage, at  regular  price  if  necessary ;  at  an  exorbitant  one  if  possible. 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  75 

To  cheat  is  second  nature  to  the  NeapoHtan  of  the  masses.  He  cheats 
his  playmates  as  a  boy,  cheats  the  shopkeeper  at  every  opportunity, 
enters  business  as  a  man  intending  to  cheat,  and  sticks  to  that  intention 
with  a  persistence  worthy  a  better  cause  to  the  end  of  his  days  —  to  be 
cheated  by  the  undertaker  and  the  priest  at  the  finale  of  his  life  of  de- 
ception and  fraud.  Yet  this  same  Naples,  corrupt,  Machiavelian,  is, 
with  its  environs,  the  breeding-ground  of  the  vast  majority  of  Italians 
who  emigrate  to  America. 

As  is  usual  among  poverty-stricken  people,  gambling  is  the  principal 
vice  of  the  southern  Italian.  Cards  and  dice  are  not  unknown,  but  the 
game  that  is  dearest  to  the  heart  of  the  Neapolitan  is  mora,  the  count- 
ing of  fingers.  The  sharp  call  of  "  cinque !  tre !  otto !  tre !  dieci !  "  raised 
a  never-ending  hubbub  in  my  lodging  house.  The  sums  of  money 
hazarded  were  not  fabulous ;  but  had  there  been  fortunes  at  stake  the 
game  could  not  have  been  more  fiercely  contended.  Each  player,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  contest,  jabbed  his  sheath-knife  into  the  bottom  of  the 
table  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand,  and  at  every  dispute  waved  it 
threateningly  above  his  head.  A  quarrel,  one  evening,  went  beyond  the 
point  of  vociferations.  One  player  emerged  from  the  contest  with  a 
slash  from  nose  to  chin,  and  another  with  an  ugly  cut  in  the  abdomen. 
But  so  ordinary  an  occurrence  was  this  in  the  house  that  a  half-hour 
later  the  game  was  raging  as  loudly  as  before. 

One  fine  morning,  soon  after  my  arrival  in  Naples,  I  awoke  to  find 
myself  the  possessor  of  just  twenty  francs.  Thus  far  I  had  been  a 
tourist ;  for,  if  I  had  spent  sparingly,  I  had  given  my  attention  to  sight- 
seeing rather  than  to  searching  for  employment.  Having  squandered 
in  unriotous  living  the  money  intended  for  photographing,  the  time  had 
come  when  I  must  earn  both  the  living  and  the  photographs. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  ship  as  a  sailor  from  Naples  to  some 
point  of  the  near  east.  The  cosmopolitan  dock  loafers  assured  me, 
however,  that  there  was  but  one  port  on  the  Mediterranean  in  which  I 
might  hope  to  sign  on,  and  that  was  Marseilles.  The  information  had 
come  too  late,  for  the  fare  to  Marseilles  as  a  deck  passenger  —  and  that 
included  no  food  en  route  —  was  twenty-five  francs.  To  be  left 
stranded  in  Naples,  however,  was  a  fate  to  be  dreaded.  I  determined 
to  take  passage  as  far  as  possible,  namely,  to  Genoa,  and  to  make  my 
way  as  best  I  could  from  there  to  the  great  French  port. 

By  playing  rival  runners  against  each  other,  I  reduced  the  regular 
fare  of  twelve  francs  to  nine  francs  and  a  cigar,  the  stogie  being  the 
commission  of  the  runner.     With  a  day  left  at  my  disposal  I  ruined 


76      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

my  misused  shoes  among  the  lava-beds  of  Vesuvius,  slept  on  a  park 
bench  to  save  the  price  of  a  lodging,  and  was  rowed  out  to  the  Lederer 
Sandor,  a  miserable  cargo-steamer  hailing  from  Trieste.  She  did  not 
sail  until  a  full  twenty-four  hours  after  the  time  set,  and  my  stock  of 
bread  and  dried  codfish  gave  out  while  we  were  but  halfway  to  Genoa. 
I  had  noted,  however,  that,  the  ship's  business  being  chiefly  the  carrying 
of  freight,  little  watch  was  kept  on  the  passengers.  Upon  arrival  in  the 
birthplace  of  Columbus,  therefore,  I  purchased  a  second  stock  of  pro- 
visions and  returned  on  board,  for  it  was  cheaper  to  hire  a  boatman  to 
row  me  out  to  the  ship  than  to  pay  lodgings  in  the  city.  Among  a  score 
of  through  passengers  my  presence  on  board  attracted  no  attention  and, 
knowing  that  the  Sandor  was  to  continue  along  the  Riviera,  I  was  still 
seated  on  one  of  her  hatches  when  she  sailed  out  of  Genoa  at  noon. 

We  cast  anchor  next  morning  at  St.  Maurizio  and,  in  the  early  after- 
noon, steamed  on  towards  Nice.  As  we  slipped  by  gleaming  Monte 
Carlo,  and  I  was  beginning  to  congratulate  myself  on  having  made  my 
way  thus  far  in  spite  of  a  flat  purse,  the  first  mate,  a  native  of  Trieste, 
sought  me  out  on  deck. 

"  What  is  your  name?"  he  asked,  in  Italian,  waving  in  his  hand  a 
bundle  of  tickets,  each  of  which  bore  the  signature  of  its  purchaser. 

Plainly  my  ruse  was  discovered;  but,  hoping  to  confuse  the  dis- 
coverer, I  answered  in  English.  But  to  no  avail.  For  this  young  man, 
who  swore  at  the  sailors  in  German  and  cursed  longshoremen  impar- 
tially in  Italian  and  French,  spoke  English  almost  without  an  accent. 
I  had  barely  mentioned  my  name  when  he  burst  out  in  my  own 
tongue : — 

"  What  are  you  doing  on  board?    Your  ticket  is  only  to  Genoa." 

"  Yes !  "  I  stammered,  "  but  I  want  to  get  to  Marseilles  and  I  have  n't 
the  price." 

"  No  fault  of  ours,  is  it?  "  demanded  the  officer.  "  Your  ticket  reads 
Genoa.     You  will  have  to  pay  the  price  from  Genoa  to  Nice." 

"  Have  n't  got  the  half  of  it,"  I  protested. 

The  mate  stared  at  me  a  moment  in  silence  and  hurried  away  to  at- 
tend to  more  pressing  affairs.  Whether  he  forgot  my  existence  pur- 
posely or  by  accident,  I  know  not ;  he  was  busy  on  the  bridge  until  our 
arrival  at  Nice  and,  by  dropping  over  the  bow  to  the  wharf  as  dusk  fell, 
I  dodged  the  vigilant  eyes  of  both  ship  and  custom  officers  and  hurried 
away,  once  more  in  "  la  belle  France." 

I  rose  next  morning  with  a  one-franc  piece  in  silver  and  a  five-franc 
note,  both  in  Italian  currency.     The  silver  passed  as  readily  as  a  French 


Italian  peasants  returning  from  the  vineyards  to  the  village 


A  factory  of  red  roof-tiles  near  Naples.     The  girl  works  f; 
daylight  to  dark  for  sixteen  cents 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  'jy 

coin  and,  fancying  the  paper  would  be  as  eagerly  accepted,  I  did  not 
trouble  to  change  it  into  coin  of  the  republic  before  setting  out  on  the 
hundred  and  fifty  mile  tramp  to  Marseilles.  The  last  sou  of  the  silver 
piece  had  been  spent  when  I  arrived  at  Cannes  in  the  evening.  I  turned 
m  at  an  auberge  of  the  famous  spa  and  tendered  the  Italian  note  in 
payment  for  a  lodging. 

"  Non  d'un  chien !  We  don't  take  Italian  paper !  "  cried  the  auber- 
giste,  with  great  vehemence.     "  (Ja  ne  vaut  rien  du  tout." 

I  visited  several  other  inns  and  such  shops  as  were  still  open,  but  the 
note  I  could  not  pass,  even  at  a  discount.  I  found  myself  in  the  para- 
doxical situation  of  being  penniless  with  money  in  my  pocket.  A  chill 
wind  blew  in  from  the  Mediterranean.  I  sat  down  on  a  step  out  of 
range  of  the  village  lights,  but  soon  fell  to  shivering  and  rose  to  wan- 
der on.  Down  on  the  sandy  beach  in  front  of  the  principal  street  were 
drawn  up  several  rowboats.  I  peered  from  behind  the  nearest  build- 
ing until  the  two  officers  who  patroled  the  water  front  had  reached  the 
far  end  of  their  beats  and,  scurrying  down  to  the  beach,  dropped  into 
the  shadow  of  the  first  skiff.  Most  of  the  boats  were  tightly  covered 
with  boards  or  tarpaulins  but,  creeping  on  hands  and  knees  from  one 
to  another,  I  found  two  with  coverings  that  had  openings  in  them  large 
enough  to  admit  a  lean  and  hungry  mortal.  In  the  first  into  which  I 
thrust  my  head  I  made  out  the  forms  of  two  gamins,  sound  asleep. 
The  second  was  uninhabited.  I  squirmed  my  way  in  and  found  inside 
a  bed  of  dirty,  but  warm  reed  mats. 

Scarcely  had  I  fallen  asleep  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  chatter  of 
hoarse  voices  and  looked  up  to  see  an  angry  face  peering  at  me  through 
the  opening. 

'*  Eh !  Dis  done,  toi !  "  growled  the  possessor  of  the  face.  "  Qu'est- 
ce  que  tu  fais  dans  mon  lit  ?  " 

"  Ton  lit,"  I  answered,  sleepily.  **  If  I  got  here  first,  how  does  it 
come  to  be  your  bed  ?  " 

"  Hein ! "  snarled  the  face.  "  Q  'a  ete  mon  coucher  ces  trois  mois. 
Bouge  toi  de  la,  sinon  — "  and  he  drew  a  finger  suggestively  across  his 
throat. 

At  this  display  of  emotion  one  of  his  companions  outside  pulled  the 
speaker  away  and  thrust  his  own  face  in  at  the  opening. 

"  Mais,  dis  done,  mon  vieux !  "  he  murmured.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
rob  three  poor  devils  of  the  bed  they  have  slept  in  for  weeks,  quoi  ?  " 

I  admitted  the  injustice  of  such  action  and  crawled  out  to  join  the 
three  crouching  figures  in  the  shadow  of  the  craft. 


yS      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  "  whispered  one  of  them. 

"  From  Nice.     I  am  on  the  road." 

"  Quoi !  "  cried  the  three,  in  suppressed  chorus,  "  on  the  road !  Thei 
why  don't  you  go  to  the  gendarmerie  ?  "  and  they  pointed  away  acros 
the  beach  to  a  hghted  window. 

"  They  '11  give  you  a  bed  for  three  nights,"  went  on  one  of  the  trio 
"  we  've  been  stowed  away  there  as  many  times  as  the  law  allows  o 
we  wouldn't  make  our  nests  here." 

I  crouched  out  of  sight  until  the  patrol  had  passed  once  more  an( 
dashed  across  the  sand  towards  the  lighted  window.  A  door  stoo< 
ajar;  inside,  an  officer,  armed  in  a  way  more  fitting  to  a  chief  of  brig 
ands  than  to  the  guardian  of  a  peaceful  watering-place,  leaned  back  ii 
his  chair,  puffing  at  a  long  Italian  cigar. 

"  Bien  !  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a  ?  "  he  demanded,  laying  the  stogie  on  th 
table  edge  and  surveying  me  leisurely  from  head  to  foot. 

I  waved  the  five-franc  piece  in  the  air.  "  I  'm  a  sailor,  walking  t( 
Marseilles,  and  the  innkeepers  won't  accept  this." 

"  Qa !  "  he  cried  contemptuously,  after  examining  the  bill  under  th 
light ;  "  Why,  that 's  Italian.  No  good  at  all !  Why  do  you  come  to  th 
gendarmerie  so  late?  We  can't  let  vagabonds  into  the  Asile  de  Nui 
at  this  hour." 

"The  Asile  de  Nuit!"  I  protested.  "I'm  not  looking  for  th 
Asile,  but  for  an  inn ;  and  I  don't  see  that  I  'm  a  vagabond,  with  a  five 
franc  note — " 

"  That 's  no  good,"  he  finished,  "  perhaps  not,  legally,  but  —  Wher 
are  your  papers  ?  " 

I  handed  over  the  consular  letter  and  the  cattle-boat  discharge 
The  officer  studied  them  a  moment  as  if  English  were  not  unknown  t( 
him  and  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"  American,  eh  ?  "  he  mused,  when  his  dream  had  ended ;  "  Sailor 
Hum !  Well,  go  sit  out  in  the  hall  until  I  am  relieved  and  I  '11  take  yoi 
to  the  Asile." 

I  sat  down  against  the  wall  on  the  flagstone  of  the  entry  and  fell  int< 
a  doze  from  which  I  was  awakened  by  the  entrance  of  another  gen 
darme,  in  full  armament  like  his  colleague.  The  latter  stepped  ou 
a  moment  later,  growled  a  "  viens,"  and  hurried  off  through  the  de 
serted  streets,  his  sword  rattling  noisily  on  the  pavement  in  the  silenc 
of  the  night.  I  marched  close  at  his  heels,  wondering  what  was  ii 
store  for  me;  for,  though  I  had  often  heard  roadsters  mention  th< 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  79 

vagabond  quarters  which  every  city  of  France  maintains,  I  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  institutions  at  first  hand. 

Five  minutes*  walk  brought  us  to  a  small  brick  building,  at  the  door 
of  which  the  gendarme  drew  out  a  bunch  of  gigantic  keys  and  entered. 
The  first  door  led  into  a  hallway  along  which  the  officer  walked  some 
ten  feet  and,  with  more  rattling  of  keys,  opened  a  second  that  led  into 
nothing,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  but  Stygian  darkness. 

"  Voila !  "  he  shouted,  pushing  me  past  him  through  the  door ;  "  Te 
voila  a  I'Asile  de  Nuit." 

"  But  where  do  I  sleep  ?  "  I  demanded.  The  darkness  was  absolute 
and,  at  my  first  step  inside  the  door,  I  bumped  against  what  appeared 
to  be  the  edge  of  a  heavy  table. 

"  Hein !  Diable  !  Sleep  on  the  shelf,"  snapped  the  gendarme  ;  then, 
comprehending  that  I  was  unfamiliar  with  the  architectural  arrange- 
ments of  an  Asile  de  Nuit,  he  struck  a  match  and  by  its  brief  flicker 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  night  asylum  of  Cannes. 

It  was  a  room  about  twenty  feet  long  and  seven  wide,  with  a 
single,  strong-barred  window  at  the  end  facing  the  street.  The  en- 
tire length  of  the  room  ran  a  sloping  wooden  shelf,  six  feet  wide 
and  some  four  feet  above  the  floor  at  the  highest  edge,  with  an  alley- 
way a  foot  wide  between  it  and  the  wall  behind  me.  The  ledge  was 
occupied  by  about  fifteen  as  sorry  specimens  of  humanity  as  it  had  as 
yet  been  my  lot  to  see  in  one  collection.  They  were  packed  like  spoons, 
with  nothing  between  their  bodies  and  the  twenty-foot  bed  but  their 
own  rags ;  and  each  of  the  fifteen  braced  his  feet  against  a  board  pro- 
jecting some  four  inches  above  the  lower  end  of  the  shelf  as  if  his 
life  depended  on  keeping  in  that  position. 

As  the  wavering  light  of  the  match  fell  on  their  faces,  a  chorus  of 
surly  growls  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  speakers,  and  increased  to  shouts 
and  curses  when  the  gendarme  crowded  a  knee  between  two  of  the 
prostrate  forms  and  exerted  his  strength  to  push  more  closely  together 
the  two  divisions  of  the  company  thus  formed. 

"  Sacre  bleu,  vous !  "  he  bellowed.  "  Bougez  vous,  done !  Here  's  a 
comrade.  Do  you  want  all  the  Asile  to  yourselves,  non  de  Dieu !  " 
"  Crowd  in  there,"  he  commanded,  pushing  me  towards  the  six-inch 
space  which  he  had  opened  between  two  of  the  sleepers.  I  crowded  in, 
as  per  order,  but  did  not  succeed  in  widening  the  space  to  any  appre- 
ciable extent.  The  gendarme  went  out,  slammed  and  •  locked  both 
doors,  and  left  me  to  listen  to  the  growls  and  oaths  that  by  no  means 


8o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

decreased  at  his  exit.  The  planks,  for  all  I  know,  may  have  been 
soft  enough;  with  all  my  struggling  I  could  not  force  the  slumberers 
far  enough  apart  to  reach  the  shelf;  and  I  spent  the  night  lying  with 
one  shoulder  and  one  hip  on  each  of  my  nearest  companions,  who 
alternated  in  turning  over  and  pushing  me  back  and  forth  between 
them  like  a  piece  of  storm-tossed  wreckage  on  the  open  sea. 

The  king  of  theatrical  costumers,  striving  to  dress  unconventionally 
the  beggar  chorus  of  a  comic  opera,  could  have  created  nothing  to 
equal  the  garments  of  the  gathering  of  tramps  from  the  four  corners 
of  Europe  that  slid  off  the  shelf  with  the  advent  of  daylight,  and  fell 
to  brushing  and  rearranging  their  rags  as  if  some  improvement  in 
appearance  could  result  from  such  industry.  Instinct  is  so  strong 
in  man  that,  were  his  only  covering  a  fig-leaf,  he  would  doubtless  give 
it  a  shake  and  a  pull  upon  arising,  if  only  in  memory  of  days  when  his 
attire  was  less  abbreviated.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  waited  for  some  of 
my  companions  to  make  the  first  move  towards  the  door.  But  their 
toilet  finished,  they  sat  down  one  by  one  on  the  edge  of  the  shelf  as  if 
the  desire  to  get  outside  the  building  was  the  furthest  from  their 
thoughts,  and  fell  to  exchanging  their  troubles  in  at  least  four 
languages. 

I  rose  and,  climbing  over  a  forest  of  legs  to  the  door,  grasped  the 
knob  and  was  about  to  give  it  a  yank,  when  the  exit  of  the  officer  the 
night  before,  with  the  clang  of  heavy  bolts  shot  home,  came  back  to 
memory.  I  sat  down  again  with  the  others,  and  following  their  exam- 
ple, filled  my  pipe,  as  the  only  consolation  left  me.  Nor  was  one  of 
these  outcasts,  who  told  of  days  of  fasting  and  the  bitter  pangs  of 
hunger,  without  his  supply  of  the  soothing  weed. 

Traffic  was  already  beginning  in  the  street  outside.  Now  and  then 
some  facetious  passer-by  stopped  to  peer  through  the  bars  at  us  and 
to  sneer :  "  Bah !  Messieurs  les  vagabonds.  Sales  betes !  "  Others 
carried  their  jocosity  so  far  as  to  toss  pebbles  and  clods  of  earth  in 
through  the  grating;  to  which  treatment  my  companions  in  misery 
were  powerless  to  reply,  except  by  spitting  out  viciously  at  their  tor- 
mentors and  promising  them  a  summary  vengeance  when  once  they 
were  released. 

An  hour  after  daylight  a  gendarme  came  to  unlock  the  doors.  I 
pushed  out  with  the  rest  and  set  off  in  the  direction  of  Marseilles.  I 
had  not  gone  five  paces,  however,  when  I  heard  a  shout  behind  me : 

"  Eh,  toi !    Ou  est-ce  que  tu  vas  comme  ga  ?  " 

I  turned  around  in  surprise. 


THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  8i 

"  Come  along  here,  you,"  roared  the  officer,  and  with  the  rest  I 
filed  back  to  the  gendarmerie,  the  butt  of  the  derisive  grimaces  of 
passing  urchins. 

At  headquarters  each  of  us  was  registered  again,  as  we  had  been 
the  night  before,  after  which  we  were  permitted  to  go  our  several 
ways.  There  was  no  means  of  changing  my  wealth  into  French  coin 
until  the  banks  opened,  two  hours  later.  Scorning  to  delay  so  long, 
I  turned  away  breakfastless  to  the  westward,  convinced  that  some 
village  banker  would  come  to  my  assistance  by  the  time  France  was 
wide  awake.  But  at  high  noon  I  was  still  plodding  on,  dizzy  with 
hunger  and  the  fatigue  of  climbing  a  low,  uninhabited  spur  of  the 
Alps  that  stretches  down  to  the  Mediterranean  west  of  Cannes,  with 
that  infernal  Italian  note  still  in  my  pocket.  At  four  in  the  afternoon 
I  reached  the  village  of  Ere  jus.  A  merchant,  whom  I  ran  to  earth 
after  a  long  search,  agreed  to  accept  the  likeness  of  Vittore  Emanuele 
at  a  half-franc  discount ;  and  I  sat  down  on  the  village  green  with  an 
armful  of  bread  and  dried  herring  —  my  first  meal  in  twenty-eight 
hours. 

I  paid,  that  night,  for  a  flee-bitten  lodgipg  in  Le  Puget,  but  con- 
cluded next  day  that  the  three  francs  remaining  could  be  better  in- 
vested in  food  than  in  sleeping-quarters.  When  darkness  again  over- 
took me,  therefore,  I  applied  for  accommodations  at  the  gendarmerie 
of  Cuers.  The  village  was  too  small  to  boast  an  Asile  de  Nuit,  but 
after  long  argument  I  induced  the  rustic  in  charge  of  the  town  hall  to 
allow  me  to  occupy  the  solitary  cell  which  the  hamlet  reserved  for  the 
incarceration  of  its  felons.  It  was  a  three-cornered  hole  under  the 
stairway  leading  to  the  upper  story,  and  I  spent  the  night  in  durance 
vile;  for  the  rustic,  for  some  reason  unknown,  insisted  on  locking 
me  in. 

Next  day  I  pressed  steadily  onward  through  a  hungry  Sunday  of 
pouring  rain,  the  mud  of  the  highway  oozing  in  through  the  expanding 
holes  of  my  dilapidated  shoes.  From  time  to  time  a  facetious  inn- 
keeper peered  out  through  the  down-pour  to  shout :  "  He  done,  toi ! 
You  don't  know  it 's  raining,  perhaps  ?  "  But  bent  on  reaching  Mar- 
seilles before  my  last  coppers  had  been  scattered,  I  dared  not  linger 
to  give  answer. 

Late  Sunday  evening  is  an  inconvenient  hour  to  look  for  the  munici- 
pal officers  of  an  unimportant  French  village.  Back  of  the  central 
place  of  Le  Beausset  I  found  the  hotel  de  ville,  a  decrepit,  one- 
story  building;  but  I  knocked  at  the  back  door,  the  entree  des  vaga- 


82      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

bonds,  for  some  time  in  vain.  A  passing  villager  advised  me  to  "  go 
right  in."  I  opened  the  door  accordingly  and  stepped  inside,  only  to 
be  driven  out  again  by  a  series  of  feminine  shrieks  before  I  had  an 
opportunity  to  make  out,  in  a  badly-lighted  kitchen,  the  exact  source 
of  the  uproar.  I  sat  down  in  the  rain  outside  the  door  that  had  been 
slammed  and  bolted  behind  me  and  waited. 

When  the  last  cafe  had  ceased  its  shouting,  another  villager,  half  in 
uniform,  pushed  past  me  and  knocked  for  admittance.  Certain  that  he 
was  a  gendarme,  I  followed  him  inside.  At  the  back  of  the  room, 
over  a  stove  from  which  rose  tantalizing  odors,  stood  two  women  who, 
catching  sight  of  me,  deluged  the  officer  with  a  flood  of  words. 

"  Here,  mon  vieux,"  he  snapped,  whirling  upon  me,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  marching  into  my  house  and  frightening  my  women  out  of 
their  wits?" 

I  excused  my  conduct  on  the  ground  of  advice  too  hastily  taken. 
The  gendarme  scowled  over  my  papers,  tucked  them  away  in  a  greasy 
cupboard  behind  the  stove,  and  turned  with  me  out  into  the  night. 
The  Asile  was  not  far  distant,  and  it  was  unoccupied.  The  officer 
set  a  candle-end  on  a  beam  and,  bidding  me  not  to  set  the  place  on 
fire  and  to  exchange  the  key  for  my  papers  in  the  morning,  departed. 
I  burrowed  deep  into  the  straw  with  which  the  shelf  was  covered  and 
fell  to  sleep  in  my  water-soaked  garments. 

Short  rations  and  plank  beds  had  left  me  in  no  condition  to  cover 
in  a  single  day  the  thirty-five  miles  between  Le  Beausset  and  Marseilles. 
I  found  my  legs  giving  way  when  darkness  caught  me  some  distance 
from  the  harbor  and,  having  no  hope  of  finding  a  better  lodging,  sat 
down  against  a  tree  on  an  outer  boulevard.  A  bitter  wind  blew,  for  it 
was  the  last  day  of  October  and  well  north  of  Naples.  In  the  far 
west  of  my  own  country,  however,  I  had  learned  a  trick  of  great  value 
"  on  the  road."  It  is,  that  a  coat  thrown  over  the  head  is  far  more 
protection  while  sleeping  out  of  doors  than  when  worn  in  the  usual  man- 
ner. I  was,  therefore,  unmolested  as  long  as  the  night  lasted,  no 
doubt  because  passers-by  saw  in  my  huddled  form  only  a  grain-sack 
dropped  by  the  wayside. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "    IN    MARSEILLES 

IT  was  well  for  my  immediate  peace  of  mind  that  no  prophet  ac- 
costed me  on  my  way  down  to  the  harbor  next  morning,  to 
foretell  the  hungry  days  that  were  to  be  my  portion  in  Mar- 
seilles.    One  of  the  strikes  that  periodically  tie  up  the  seaport  of 
southern  France  was  at  its  height.     Dozens  of  sailing  vessels  rode  at 
anchor  in  the  little  "  Old  Harbor  " ;  the  rdde  behind  the  great  V-shaper 
breakwater  was  crowded  with  shipping;  at  the  wharves  were  moor 
long  rows  of  ocean-liners,  among  which  the  white,  clipper-built  stea 
ers  of  the  Messageries  Maritimes  predominated,  their  cargoes  rotti 
in  their  holds.     In  a  season  of  customary  activity  it  would  have  bt 
easy  to  "  sign  on  "  some  ship  eastward  bound.     On  this  Novemt 
morning,  a  blind  man  must  have  known,  from  the  silence  of  the  por 
that  there  was  small  prospect  even  of  finding  work  ashore. 

Six  sous  rattled  in  my  pocket.  I  squandered  the  half  of  them  for 
a  breakfast  and  set  out  on  a  tour  of  the  warehouses  on  the  wharves. 
But  at  every  spot  where  twenty  longshoremen  were  needed  for  the 
unloading  of  a  mail  steamer,  there  were  hundreds  surging  around  the 
timekeeper,  clamoring  for  employment.  I  reached  the  front  ranks  of 
several  of  these  groups  by  football  tactics,  only  to  be  informed,  when  I 
shouted  my  name  to  the  official  on  the  top  of  a  cask  or  bale,  that  he  was 
hiring  only  those  stevedores  whom  he  knew  personally,  and  could  not 
find  places  for  a  fourth  of  them.  As  darkness  came  on,  I  gave  over  the 
useless  tramping  up  and  down  the  roadstead,  wolfed  a  "  stevedore's 
hand-out "  in  one  of  the  open-air  booths  of  the  Place  de  la  Joliette, 
and  utterly  penniless  at  last,  turned  away  to  the  Asile  de  Nuit,  as  the 
only  refuge  left  me. 

The  night  asylum  of  Marseilles,  situated  beyond  the  Avenue  de  la 
Republique,  just  off  the  silent  wharves,  was  no  such  one-room  hovel 
as  housed  the  wanderer  in  Cannes  or  Cuers.  It  covered  what  would 
have  been  a  block  in  an  American  city  and  rose  to  a  height  of  three 
stories;  a  plain,  cold  structure  above  the  door  of  which  the  legend, 
"  Asile  de  Nuit,"  cut  in  stone,  seemed  to  suggest  how  permanent  and 

83 


I 


84      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

irremediable  is  poverty.  Before  the  entrance  were  at  least  a  hundred 
men  of  every  age,  from  mere  boys  to  wrinkled  greybeards,  chattering 
in  groups,  leaning  against  the  building,  seated  on  the  sidewalk  with 
their  feet  in  the  gutter,  or  strolling  anxiously  up  and  down.  Not  all 
of  them  were  vagabonds  in  outward  appearance.  Here  and  there  were 
men  in  comparatively  clean  linen  and  otherwise  as  faultless  in  attire 
as  well-to-do  merchants.  A  half-dozen  of  them  wore  dress-suits. 
They  did  not  sit  with  their  feet  in  the  gutter ;  most  of  them  held  aloof 
from  their  ragged  companions  and  strutted  back  and  forth. with  the 
pompous  air  of  successful  politicians.  But  their  conversation  was,  like 
that  of  the  others,  of  the  "  grafts  "  of  the  road  throughout  the  conti- 
nent of  Europe. 

The  "  dress-suit  vagabond  "  was  a  type  new  to  me  then.     He  became 
familiar  figure  long  before  my  wanderings  ended.     Wherever  I  met 
m,  he  hailed  from  the  Kaiser's  realm.     The  German  is  admitted  by 
t  vagabonds  of  every  nationality  to  be  the  most  successful  beggar  in 
he  profession."     It  is  this  well-dressed  tramp  who  awakens  the  bla- 
it  sympathy   of   English   and   American  tourists  —  those   infallible 
.dges  of  human  nature  —  the  world  over.     "  Poor  fellow  !  "  will  cry 
ne  hysterical  lady  abroad,  when  approached  by  one  of  this  suave-man- 
nered gentry ;  "  He  is,  indeed,  making  a  struggle  to  keep  up  in  the 
world !     Let 's  give  him  something  worth  while,  Arthur,  for,  surely,  he 
cannot  be  ranked  with  those  lazy,  ragged  tramps  over  there."     As  a 
matter  of  fact,  "  those  ragged  tramps  over  there  "  are,  more  often  than 
not,  unpresumptuous  sailors  reduced  to  tatters  by  the  rascalities  of 
shipping  companies  or  their  able  assistants,  the  land  sharks  of  great 
ports.     They  would  jump  at  any  chance  of  employment,  while  the 
*'  poor  fellow,"  who  has  begged  the  very  clothes  that  give  him  this 
false   appearance   of   respectability,  has   been   approaching  just   such 
hysterical  ladies  for  years,  fully  intends  doing  so  to  the  end  of  his 
days,  and  would  not  accept  the  presidency  of  a  railroad. 

The  Asile  of  Marseilles  was  not  controlled,  as  those  of  other 
French  cities,  by  the  gendarmerie,  but  was  the  branch  establishment 
of  a  neighboring  monastery.  By  eight  o'clock  the  crowd  before  the 
building  had  doubled,  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  we  filed  into 
an  office  where  three  monks,  in  cowl  and  soutane,  sat  behind  a 
wicket.  In  Europe,  man's  fate  often  hangs  on  a  few  scraps  of  paper. 
The  applicant  for  lodging  in  the  Asile  was  irrevocably  turned  out 
into  the  night  unless  he  could  show  two  of  these  all-important  docu- 
ments, one  to  establish  his  identity  and  nationality,  and  another  to 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  85 

prove  that  he  had  been  at  work  at  a  not-too-distant  date.  To  forge 
certificates  of  employment  is  no  unsurmountable  task  to  those  who 
cannot  come  by  them  honestly,  and  the  most  laudatory  ones  presented 
were  those  of  the  "  dress-suit  tramps."  A  grey-haired  frere  read  my 
papers  rapidly  and  asked  me,  in  English,  with  hardly  a  trace  of  for- 
eign accent,  if  I  spoke  French.  Upon  my  affirmative  reply  he  pushed 
the  documents  I  had  handed  him  to  his  younger  colleague,  who  en- 
tered my  name  and  biography  in  a  huge  book  and  gave  me,  with  my 
papers,  a  check  entitling  me  to  a  bed  in  the  Asile  for  eight  nights. 

I  passed  into  the  common  room,  a  sort  of  chapel,  the  long  benches  of 
which  were  already  half-filled  with  grumbling  tramps.  In  front  was  a 
plain  pulpit,  around  the  walls  fifteen  large  crucifixes,  and  at  the  back 
a  table  where  several  men  were  writing  letters  with  materials  fur- 
nished by  the  establishment.  The  room  was  crowded  when  nine 
o'clock  sounded  from  the  great  Asile  bell.  The  outer  door  closed 
with  a  bang,  the  grey-haired  monk  marched  in  with  a  gigantic  Bible 
in  his  arms,  mounted  the  pulpit,  and  launched  forth  in  a  service  worthy 
of  note  for  the  length  of  its  prayers  and  a  drowsy  discourse  on  the 
life  of  some  saint  or  other,  to  which  the  assembled  vagabonds  lis- 
tened with  stolid  tolerance  as  something  which  must  be  endured  as 
a  punishment  for  being  penniless.  A  gong  rang  out  in  the  hall  at 
the  end  of  the  sermon.  We  mounted  the  stairs  and  each,  according  to 
his  check,  entered  one  of  several  large  rooms  containing  fifty  beds 
apiece.  Those  who  had  registered  at  some  previous  date  went  at  once 
to  their  cots.  The  newcomers  filed  by  a  frere  in  charge  of  a  huge 
pile  of  bedding  in  the  center  of  the  room.  As  each  one  received  two 
clean  sheets  and  a  pillow-case,  he  promptly  sought  out  the  cot  assigned 
him,  pulled  oflf  the  soiled  linen,  carried  it  back  to  the  monk,  and 
returned  to  make  up  his  bed.  The  cleanliness  of  the  cots  was  truly 
monasterial.  But  they  were  so  narrow  that  to  turn  over  was  a  preca- 
rious operation,  and  so  much  harder  than  a  plank  bed  as  to  suggest 
that  they  were  filled  with  ground  stone.  In  spite,  however,  of  the 
chorus  of  snores  which  mocked  the  printed  notices  on  the  walls,  com- 
manding silence,  I  lay  not  long  awake,  for  I  had  long  since  parted 
company  with  soft  beds. 

At  five  in  the  morning,  long  before  daylight,  we  were  awakened 
by  a  clanging  bell  and  a  trio  of  freres  who  marched  up  and  down 
the  room,  shouting  to  us  to  be  up  and  away.  Woe  betide  the  man  who 
turned  over  for  another  nap,  for  one  of  the  monks  was  upon  him  in 
an  instant  and,  with  an  agility  and  a  force  that  suggested  that  he  , 


86      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

had  been  a  champion  wrestler  before  taking  orders,  dumped  him  un- 
ceremoniously on  the  floor.  When  we  had  made  up  our  beds  and 
soused  our  faces  at  a  hydrant  in  the  outer  courtyard,  we  were  driven 
out  into  the  dreary  streets. 

I  had  fallen  in  with  a  stranded  English  sailor  at  the  Asile.  Not 
even  on  shipboard  can  one  strike  up  acquaintances  as  quickly  as  in 
a  band  of  sans-sous.  For  an  hour  we  wandered  about  the  city,  shiver- 
ing in  the  chill  that  precedes  the  dawn,  and  then  made  our  way 
down  to  the  harbor.  A  British  merchantman  was  discharging  a  cargo 
at  one  of  the  wharves.  We  slunk  on  board  and,  keeping  out  of 
sight  of  the  officers,  dodged  into  the  forecastle.  The  crew  was  strug- 
gling to  do  away  with  a  plentiful  breakfast. 

"I  sye,  shipmites,"  cried  my  companion,  "any  show  for  a  bite?" 

"  Sure,  lads !  "  shouted  several  of  the  sailors,  with  that  hearty  un- 
selfishness of  the  English  seamen  the  world  over.  "  Eat  up  and  give 
the  old  ship  a  good  name !  " 

"  English  ?  Eh,  lad  ?  "  asked  the  old  tar  who  gave  me  his  seat  at  the 
table. 

"  My  mate  is,  but  I  'm  an  American,"  I  answered,  a  bit  dubiously. 

"  Oh,  hell,"  rumbled  the  veteran  salt,  heaping  his  plate  in  front  of 
me,  "  English  or  American !  What 's  the  bloody  difference  ?  I  mean 
you  're  not  a  dago  or  a  Dutchman  ?  How  long  have  you  been  on  the 
beach  ?  " 

We  did  full  justice  to  the  ship's  good  name  and  left  her  with 
bread  and  meat  enough  in  our  pockets  to  stave  off  the  hunger  engen- 
dered by  a  day  of  tramping  up  and  down  the  wharves.  Next  morn- 
ing the  only  English  vessel  in  harbor  lay  well  out  in  mid-stream,  and 
we  subsisted  on  unroasted  peanuts  and  broken  cocoanut-meat  im- 
ported for  its  oil,  of  which  several  vessels  from  the  Orient  were  dis- 
charging whole  shiploads. 

Penniless  sailors  swarmed  in  the  Place  de  la  Joliette  and  the  Place 
Victor  Gelu,  the  rendezvous  of  seamen  in  Marseilles.  As  my  ac- 
quaintance with  these  "  beachcombers  "  increased,  I  picked  up  knowl- 
edge of  the  "  grafts  "  of  the  port.  On  my  fourth  morning  in  the  city 
I  was  aroused  from  a  nap  against  the  pedestal  of  the  bronze  Gelu  by 
a  Brazilian  sailor,  who  had  been  long  stranded  in  the  city. 

"Hola!  Yank,"  he  shouted,  "are  you  coming  for  breakfas'?" 

"  Busted !  "  I  answered,  shortly. 

"  Cono,  me  too,"  he  returned ;  "  come  along." 

He  led  the  way  round  the  vieux  port  and  far  out  along  the  beach 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  87 

by  a  steep  road.  In  that  section  of  Marseilles  known  as  les  Catalans, 
once  the  home  of  Dumas*  Monte  Cristo,  we  joined  a  crowd  before  a 
granite  building  above  the  entrance  of  which  was  a  sign  reading, 
*'  Bouchee  de  Pain."  When  the  door  opened  we  filed  through  an  ante- 
room where  a  man  handed  each  of  us  a  wedge  of  bread,  de  deuxieme 
qualite,  from  several  bushel  baskets  of  similar  wedges,  and  we  passed 
silently  on  into  an  adjoining  room.  The  two  rough  tables  it  contained 
were  each  garnished  with  a  jar  of  water,  which,  as  we  ate  our  bread, 
passed  from  hand  to  hand.  On  the  walls  hung  copies  of  the  rules 
governing  the  Bouchee  de  Pain,  and  in  various  parts  of  the  room  stood 
officials  who  strove  to  enforce  them  to  the  letter.  The  important  ones 
were  as  follows : 

"  I.     No  talking  is  allowed  in  the  Bouchee  de  Pain. 
'  "  2.     The  bread  must  be  eaten  at  the  tables  and  not  carried  away. 

"  3.  Anyone  bringing  other  food  into  the  Bouchee  de  Pain  to  eat 
with  his  bread  will  be  summarily  ejected. 

"  4.  Bread  will  be  served  daily  at  ten  and  at  three  to  those  who 
do  not  forfeit  their  right  to  the  kind  charity  of  the  city  of  Marseilles 
by  disobeying  these  rules." 

But,  as  he  who  has  come  Into  contact  with  tramps  and  adventurers 
;knows,  it  is  difficult  to  suppress  the  inventive  talents  of  the  genus 
vagabundus  by  mere  printed  statutes,  even  with  a  cohort  of  officers 
to  enforce  them.  The  second  of  the  rules,  especially,  was  not  strictly 
adhered  to.  The  crowds  that  reported  daily  at  the  institution  were 
so  great  as  to  fill  the  tables  a  third  and  even  a  fourth  time.  The 
wily  ones  about  me,  knowing  that  this  was  only  the  "  first  table," 
nibbled  their  wedges  ever  so  slowly,  until  the  uninitiated  had  finished 
their  portions  and  the  officers  cried  "  allez,"  when  they  tucked  what 
was  left  under  their  coats,  and  tumbled  with  the  rest  of  us  through 
a  back  door,  there  to  trade  the  wedge  for  tobacco,  or  to  eat  it  with 
what  they  had  picked  up  about  the  city. 

"  Vamonos,  hombre,"  said  the  Brazilian ;  "  now  for  the  soup." 
A  full  two  miles  we  walked  over  another  steep  hill  to  find,  before 
a  building  styled  "  Cuillere  de  Soupe,"  much  the  same  crowd. as  had 
been  at  the  Bouchee  de  Pain.  The  soup  was  more  carefully  doled 
out  than  the  bread  had  been.  An  officer  at  the  door  called  for  our 
papers,  set  down  our  names  in  his  register,  and  handed  us  tickets 
which  entitled  us  to  soup  at  eleven  and  four  daily,  but  only  for 
eight  days. 


88      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

The  fates  preserve  me  from  ever  again  tasting  the  concoction,  mis- 
named soup,  v^hich  was  set  before  me  when  I  had  gained  admittance. 
A  bowl  of  water,  grey  in  color,  and  of  the  temperature  which  the  doc- 
tor calls  for  when  he  has  by  him  neither  a  stomach-pump  nor  a  feather 
with  which  to  tickle  the  patient's  throat,  contained  one  leaf  —  and 
that  the  very  outside  one  —  of  a  cabbage,  half  an  inch  of  the  top 
of  a  carrot  with  the  leaves  still  on  it,  and  three  sprigs  of  what  looked 
like  grass.  When  I  had  made  a  complete  inventory  of  my  own  dish, 
I  turned  to  peer  into  that  of  the  Brazilian.  He  had  the  self-same 
portion  of  a  carrot,  a  companion  to  my  cabbage-leaf,  and  three  quite 
similar  blades  of  grass.  Certainly,  one  could  not  accuse  the  soup 
officials  of  partiality,  and  if  the  cook  was  sparing  of  specimens  from 
the  vegetable  kingdom  he  made  up  for  it  in  ingredients  from  the 
world  of  minerals.  There  was  salt  enough  in  my  mess  to  have 
preserved  a  side  of  beef,  and  pebbles  of  various  sizes  and  shapes 
chased  each  other  merrily  around  behind  the  spoon  with  which  I 
stirred  up  the  mixture.  I  know  not  who  supplied  the  establishment 
with  water,  but  the  beach  was  not  far  distant. 

Several  times  I  returned  to  the  Bouchee  de  Pain  before  I  left  Mar- 
seilles behind;  the  Cuillere  de  Soupe  I  struck  off  my  calling  list  at 
once. 

The  city  of  Marseilles  has  established  these  two  institutions  in  an 
attempt  to  reduce  the  begging  class,  and  to  provide  an  alternative  for 
the  indiscriminate  asking  of  alms,  which  is  strictly  forbidden  in  the 
city.  The  buildings  have  purposely  been  placed  in  the  most  incon- 
venient sections  of  the  municipality  and  far  apart,  in  the  hope  that 
only  those  who  are  in  dire  want  will  visit  them.  As  small  an 
amount  of  food  is  given  as  will  sustain  life,  because  it  is  fancied 
that  this  arrangement  will  cause  the  penniless  to  redouble  their  efforts 
to  become  self-supporting.  Yet  the  plan  is  not  entirely  a  success, 
though  the  authorities  may  not  know  it.  Many  a  man  I  have  seen  at 
these  places  whom  I  knew  had  money  enough  on  his  person  to  buy  a 
dozen  hotel  dinners  —  money  wheedled  out  of  soft-hearted  and  soft- 
headed tourists,  which  he  would  have  considered  it  a  sin  to  pay  out  for 
food  when  cool,  green  absinthe  could  be  bought  with  it.  The  "  dress- 
suit  tramps,"  if  they  had  no  "bigger  game  on  the  string,"  made  this 
walk  their  daily  exercise,  and  referred  to  it  as  their  "  constitutional." 
Those  who  wished  really  to  look  for  work  found  that  the  long  tramp 
twice  a  day  used  up  both  their  time  and  their  strength,  until  they  had 
little  of  either  left  to  prosecute  their  search. 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  89 

The  strike  broke  and  business  was  slowly  and  half-heartedly  re- 
sumed. All  my  efforts  to  find  work,  however,  turned  to  naught. 
It  became  evident  that  if  ever  I  "  shipped  "  for  the  Orient  it  must  be 
through  the  assistance  of  someone  of  better  standing.  A  few  of  the 
"  beachcombers  "  signed  on,  but  every  captain  who  wandered  through 
the  Place  Victor  Gelu  to  pick  up  a  sailor  was  at  once  surrounded  by  a 
half-hundred  seamen  headed  by  their  "  boarding  masters,"  and  chose 
his  man  long  before  an  "  outsider  "  could  gain  a  hearing.  In  many  a 
city  of  Europe  I  had  been  advised  by  fellow-wayfarers  to  appeal  to 
the  American  consul.  In  the  opinion  of  my  English  companion  and 
others :  *'  That 's  all  the  bloody  loafers  are  shipped  over  here  for, 
anyway,  to  give  we  honest  chaps  a  lift  when  we  're  down."  Not  quite 
sharing  this  view,  I  had,  thus  far,  thanked  the  advisers  and  gone  my 
way.  But  when  I  had  seen  several  "  beachcombers  "  sail  away  through 
the  assistance  of  higher  authorities,  I  determined  to  make  my  exist- 
ence known  to  our  Marseilles  representative. 

Accordingly,  on  my  return  from  the  Bouchee  de  Pain  one  morning,- 
I  stopped  in  at  the  consulate.  My  papers  were  inspected  by  a  negro 
secretary  in  the  outer  office,  passed  on  to  the  vice-consul,  and  finally 
to  the  consul-general.  That  official,  calling  me  inside  to  satisfy 
himself  as  to  my  nationality,  gave  me  a  note  to  one  "  Portuguese 
Joe,"  whom  I  would  find  "  hanging  around  on  the  Place  Victor  Gelu." 
Joe,  the  consul  explained,  was  master  of  a  sailors'  boarding  house, 
who  undertook  to  shelter  and  feed  such  penniless  mariners  as  the 
consul  could  vouch  for,  until  he  found  them  berths,  and  took  his  re- 
ward in  a  month's  advance  on  their  wages  —  the  regular  blood-money 
system  that  is  in  vogue  in  almost  every  port. 

I  found  Joe  "  hanging  around  "  as  the  consul  had  promised,  hanging 
around  a  lamp-post  in  the  center  of  the  place,  and  if  he  had  not 
been  able  to  find  some  such  support  he  would  have  been  lying  around 
the  same  public  spot.  He  was  a  big,  greasy,  half-breed  nigger  —  I 
should  hate  to  say  negro  —  and  he  had  what,  in  Jack  Tar's  parlance, 
is  known  as  "  a  full  cargo."  In  a  ring  about  him  were  a  score  of 
sailors  of  various  nationalities  and  colors,  from  plain  New  Yorkers 
and  Baltimore  negroes,  to  East  Indians  and  men  from  the  Congo  Free 
State,  who  were  making  the  boarding  master  the  butt  of  their  raillery. 
These  same  men,  except,  perhaps,  the-.  Anglo-Saxons,  would  have 
quailed  before  this  maudlin  rascal,  sober,  whom  they  were  repaying, 
now,  by  their  ridicule,  for  many  a  perfidious  trick  he  had  played  them. 

I  received  a  franc  from  the  drunken  lout  as  soon  as  I  had  made  him 


90      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

understand  the  note  from  the  consul,  and  lost  no  time  in  leaving  it  in 
a  restaurant.  That  night  I  slept  on  the  floor  of  Joe's  house,  with  a 
huge  Antigua  negro  as  a  roommate.  The  house  was  a  shack  border- 
ing on  the  fish-market  and  the  red-light  district,  a  quarter  requiring 
six  policemen  to  the  block.  Several  times  during  the  night  I  started  up 
at  some  piercing  scream  or  long-drawn  wail,  and  I  borrowed  a  morn- 
ing paper  fully  expecting  to  read  of  deeds  of  unusual  violence.  But 
it  was  only  the  customary  list  of  minor  misfortunes  that  was  chron- 
icled; a  carousing  sailor  run  down  in  that  street,  an  Italian  stabbed 
by  a  fellow-countryman  in  this,  a  demi-mondaine  thrown  out  of  a 
window  in  a  third. 

Portuguese  Joe  was  a  totally  different  being  the  next  morning 
from  the  besotted  wretch  that  I  had  seen  the  day  before.  Fat  and 
pompous,  dressed  as  if  to  attend  a  fancy  ball,  he  paraded  up  and  down 
the  seamens'  rendezvous,  interviewing  a  captain  here,  stopping  for  a 
tete-a-tete  with  another  boarding  master  or  a  runner  there,  and  scowl- 
ing haughtily  at  the  common  sailors  who  ventured  to  approach 
him. 

Joe  was  a  fair  example  of  the  type  that  is  the  visitation  of  seamen 
ashore.  Jack  Tar  is  the  most  prodigal  of  existing  beings,  either 
with  the  earnings  in  his  pocket  or  with  those  he  has  yet  to  toil  for, 
and  he  bears  with  far  too  much  resignation  the  knavery  of  these  ship- 
ping masters.  With  all  its  romance,  life  on  the  ocean  wave  is  a  dreary 
and  precarious  enough  existence  to  the  man  before  the  mast,  yet 
many  are  the  nations  that  enhance  the  misery  of  his  lot  by  tolerating 
these  human  sharks  and  their  nefarious  practices  in  their  ports. 
When  Jack  comes  ashore,  his  one  desire,  in  most  cases,  is  to  spend 
his  accumulated  earnings  as  soon  as  possible.  At  sea,  money  is  the 
most  worthless  of  commodities.  The  man  in  the  forecastle  on  a  long 
voyage  would  not  sell  his  share  of  the  soggy  "  plum-duff  "  that  comes 
with  his  Sunday  dinner  for  a  month's  wages  in  cash.  Small  wonder, 
then,  that  he  is  lavish  with  his  pounds  and  shillings  during  his  few 
days  ashore,  and  that  he  rarely  thinks  of  shipping  again  until  his 
last  coin  is  spent.  It  is  then  that  the  careless  prodigal  falls  an 
easy  prey  to  Portuguese  Joe  and  his  ilk.  Joe  boasted  of  '*  never  having 
done  a  tap  of  work  "  in  his  life.  His  mixture  of  Portuguese  and  negro 
blood  had  made  him  a  tolerably  quick-witted  fellow,  with  con- 
siderable tact,  as  that  quality  goes  among  seafaring  men.  He  had 
picked  up  a  practicable  use  of  most  of  the  European  languages,  and 
enough  knowledge  of  the  niceties  of  French  law  to  know  how  far  he 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  91 

could  go  with  impunity  in  fleecing  his  victims.  In  various  ways  he 
had  ingratiated  himself  with  captains  and  the  agents  of  ships  sail- 
ing from  Marseilles,  until  he  had  become  one  of  several  absolute 
inonarchs  in  that  port  over  slow-witted,  spendthrift  Jack  Tar.  Was 
business  going  badly  ?  Then  Joe  was  down  aboard  some  ship  talking  his 
way  with  his  oily  tongue  into  a  seat  at  the  captain's  table.  Were 
sailors  in  demand?  Then  he  was  picking  them  up  everywhere,  giving 
them  a  meal  or  two,  and  shipping  them  off  with  nothing  but  a  bag  of 
ragged  "  gear  "  to  show  for  the  month  or  six  weeks'  advance  on  their 
wages,  which  he  hastened  back  to  throw  on  the  gambling  table  or  to 
spend  in  the  nasty  vices  of  a  great  seaport.  To  be  sure,  some  of 
this  money  would  have  gone  the  same  way  if  the  sailor  had  received 
it.  But  one  could  more  easily  have  tolerated  its  squandering  by 
the  man  who  had  undergone  the  sufferings  and  privations  of  a  long 
voyage  to  earn  it,  and  at  least  we  "  beachcombers  "  should  have  been 
spared  the  sight  of  Portuguese  Joe  and  his  cronies,  strutting  back 
and  forth  across  the  Place  Victor  Gelu,  and  putting  their  heads  to- 
gether to  evolve  new  schemes  for  robbing  other  victims. 

There  were  few  accommodations  in  Joe's  hovel,  and  on  the  second 
day  I  was  transferred  to  a  seamens'  boarding  house  in  the  dingy 
backwater  of  the  Avenue  de  la  Republique.  The  establishment  was 
run  by  Joe's  brother,  a  burly  mulatto  known  in  all  the  lower  quarters 
of  the  city  as  "  Portuguese  Pete  "  who,  like  his  brother,  lay  claim  to 
no  family  name ;  and  by  his  wife,  a  slatternly  white  woman  of  French 
parentage.  In  the  windowless  upper  story  were  a  score  of  foul  nests 
that  ranked  as  beds.  The  one  to  which  I  was  assigned  was  a  broken- 
backed  cot.  After  a  vain  attempt  to  sleep,  doubled  up  like  a  pocket- 
knife,  amid  the  uproar  of  my  roommates,  who  were  snoring  in  several 
languages,  I  crept  down  stairs  to  borrow  a  plank  from  the  kitchen 
wood-pile,  and  propping  up  the  pallet,  fell  asleep.  Some  time  must 
have  passed,  for  I  was  in  deep  slumber  and  not  even  the  house  cat  was 
stirring,  when  the  cot,  mattress,  bedding,  and  prop  came  down  with  a 
crash  that  certainly  awakened  the  policeman  in  the  next  block,  and 
left  me  entangled  in  a  Gordian  knot  of  sheets  and  counterpanes  of 
the  width  of  a  ship's  hawser.  I  slept  on  the  floor  during  the  rest  of 
my  stay  with  Portuguese  Pete. 

There  was  one  advantage  —  and  one  only  —  gained  by  the  change 
from  the  Asile  to  this  new  lodging.  The  habits  of  Pete  and  his  spouse 
were  by  no  means  as  austere  as  those  of  the  monks  who  turned  us  out 
into  the  cold,  grey  dawn.     The  meals  we  were  to  pay  so  dearly  for, 


92      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

when  we  shipped,  were  on  a  par  with  the  sleeping  accommodations. 
Each  morning,  after  taking  turns  in  pounding  on  the  proprietor's  door 
for  an  hour  or  two,  we  usually  succeeded  in  inducing  his  consort  to 
descend,  in  neglige  and  a  vicious  temper,  to  serve  us  each  a  cup  of 
tepid  water  with  a  smell  of  chickory  about  it,  and  a  wedge  of  bread. 
At  noon  and  night  we  did  duty  alternately  before  the  black,  smoky 
fire-place,  in  assisting  Madame  Pete  to  prepare  the  soup  and  macaroni 
that  were  served  in  painfully  meager  quantities  with  bread  and  brack- 
ish wine.  Like  the  pupils  of  Squeers,  we  dared  not  ask  for  more, 
lest  we  call  down  upon  our  heads  the  mighty  wrath  of  Pete. 

Pete  spoke  a  cosmopolitan  language,  an  Esperanto  of  his  own  mak- 
ing, concocted  from  all  the  tongues  represented  around  his  board, 
with  no  partiality  or  predeliction  for  any  particular  one.  He  who 
did  not  know  at  least  French,  English,  Italian,  and  Portuguese  or 
Spanish,  with  something  of  the  patois  of  Provence,  had  small  chance 
of  catching  more  than  the  drift  of  Pete's  remarks.  English  words 
with  Italian  endings,  Portuguese  words  with  a  French  pronunciation, 
French  words  that  started  out  well  enough  but  ended  with  a  nonde- 
script grunt,  all  uttered  in  a  voice  that  made  the  rafters  ring  and 
the  wine-glasses  on  the  table  dance  excitedly,  were  the  daily  ac- 
companiments of  our  gatherings.  Yet  Pete,  with  all  his  bellow,  was 
the  exact  antithesis  of  his  brother.  He  had  spent  years  before  the 
mast  and  had  been  rated  an  excellent  sailor,  before  he  drifted  into 
Marseilles  and  became  the  understudy  of  unscrupulous  Joe.  He  was 
as  slow  of  wit  as  the  seamen  who  quailed  before  his  wife's  bleary 
eye  —  and  as  for  tact!  The  only  influence  or  coercion  which  Pete 
could  bring  to  bear  on  those  of  his  fellow-men  who  did  not  heed  the 
roar  of  his  mighty  voice  were  his  no  less  mighty  fists.  More  than 
once  he  had  threatened,  like  the  giant  Antiguan,  to  use  these  powerful 
arguments  on  his  brother's  anatomy;  for  Joe  had  never  hesitated, 
when  there  was  something  to  be  gained  by  it,  to  entrap  Pete  in  the 
meshes  of  his  Machiavelian  plots.  As  when,  during  a  season  of 
sharp  demand  for  sailors,  he  had  generously  served  Pete  with  "  knock- 
out drops,"  dragged  him  on  board  a  ship  bound  for  the  fever-in- 
fected, west-African  coast,  and  made  merry  with  the  two  months' 
advance  offered  for  any  seaman  that  could  be  captured.  But  Joe 
let  himself  be  caught  only  in  the  glare  of  daylight  and  on  the  public 
squares,  and  there  the  wrath  of  Pete  and  many  another  who  had 
fought  his  way  back  to  Marseilles  with  the  avowed  intention  of 
throttHng  the  rascally  half-breed,  had  vanished  at  the  sound  of  that 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  93 

oily  tongue.  Pete  was  kind-hearted  and  prodigal  by  nature,  and  years 
in  the  forecastle  had  by  no  means  cured  him  of  these  faults.  Those 
who  knew  told  tales  of  his  favors  to  boarders  and  of  the  groaning  of 
his  table  in  the  days  of  prosperity.  But  evil  times  had  fallen  on  Mar- 
seilles and,  like  my  fellow-boarders,  I  always  left  Pete's  hovel  with 
a  gnawing  hunger,  and  divided  my  days  between  following  the  clue 
of  some  job  and  wandering  with  envious  eyes  through  the  market- 
places. 

The  band  that  rose  from  our  table  to  follow  Pete  to  the  ship- 
chandler's  office  or  to  tramp  at  Joe's  heels,  by  night  or  by  day,  to 
the  far  end  of  the  breakwater,  in  pursuit  of  a  rumor  that  a  ship  was 
"  signing  on,"  was  as  variegated  in  experience  as  in  color.  Two 
hulking,  good-hearted  Baltimore  negroes  were  the  heroes  of  the 
party.  In  a  strike  riot  of  two  months  before  they  had  been  arrested 
for  killing  a  gendarme,  a  crime  of  which  they  were  really,  though 
unintentionally,  guilty.  The  prosecution,  however,  had  not  succeeded 
in  proving  a  case  against  them.  The  older  had  been  sentenced  to 
sixty  days  and  the  younger,  who  had  been  shot  during  the  melee,  was 
left  to  recuperate  in  the  city  hospital.  They  burst  in  upon  us  almost 
at  the  same  time  during  my  first  days  at  Pete's,  and  took  the  head  of 
the  board  at  once.  Two  nights  later  the  hospital  patient  —  a  youth  of 
nineteen  —  gave  an  exhibition  of  cool,  collected  grit  that  is  rarely 
equaled  even  among  seafaring  men.  A  half-dozen  of  us  had  stepped 
into  a  cabaret  in  the  unconventional  section  of  the  city.  A  quarrel 
began  over  some  question  of  racial  dislike.  In  the  free-for-all  battle 
that  ensued  an  Italian  drew  a  long,  double-edged  sheath  knife  and 
sprang  for  the  youth  from  Baltimore.  The  latter  had  scarcely  fin- 
ished knocking  down  another  assailant  but,  without  stepping  aside 
ever  so  little,  he  calmly  grasped  the  finely  ground  blade  in  his  left 
hand,  and  while  the  blood  gushed  down  his  forearm,  as  the  Italian 
strove  to  twist  the  knife  out  of  his  grip  of  iron,  he  drew  from  his  hip- 
pocket  a  razor,  opened  it  behind  his  back  as  tranquilly  as  for  a  morn- 
ing shave,  and  slashed  his  opponent  from  ear  to  chin.  With  the 
Italian's  neck-tie  bound  tightly  around  his  wrist,  he  marched  home- 
ward, singing  plantation  ballads  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  washed  his 
mutilated  palm  in  a  bucket,  tied  it  up  with  the  tail  of  a  shirt,  and  sal- 
lied forth  in  quest  of  new  adventures. 

As  near-heroes,  there  was  a  stocky  little  Spaniard,  once  a  handeril- 
lero,  who  had  abandoned  the  bull-ring  for  the  forecastle  with  a  dozen 
scars  from  sharp  horns  on  his  neck  and  body.     His  tales  were  rivaled 


94      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

by  a  Jamaican  negro,  the  only  survivor  of  a  shipwrecked  crew,  who 
had  risen  to  power  in  a  South-Sea  island,  and  by  an  Australian  who 
was  credited  with  having  thirty-six  wives.  An  Italian  who  had  been 
on  the  operatic  stage  —  what  for,  we  could  not  find  out ;  a  Finn 
who  chewed  tobacco  while  he  ate ;  and  a  run-away  boy  from  Madeira, 
who  flooded  his  macaroni  with  tears  so  regularly  that  his  portion  was 
always  served  unsalted,  were  likewise  on  exhibition.  Then  there  was 
"  Antoine  de  la  Ceinture  "  (Tony  of  the  Belt).  Tony  was  one  of  the 
last-but-not-least  sort.  Were  we  bound  for  the  chandler's  office?  Then 
Tony  could  be  trusted  to  bring  up  the  rear.  Was  dinner  late  in  being 
served?  It  was  because  Tony  had  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance. 
Was  Joe  lining  us  up  for  inspection  before  some  skipper?  Then 
everyone  knew  without  looking  that  it  was  Tony  who  answered  to 
his  name  at  the  end  of  the  line.  But  Tony's  most  remarkable  feature 
was  his  belt.  Many  of  the  workmen  of  France  wear  in  lieu  of  sus- 
penders, long,  gaily-colored  sashes.  Yet  no  belt  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  France  could  rival  Tony's.  It  was  as  red  as  the  blood  that 
flowed  on  the  night  of  the  melee  —  when  Tony  had  lived  up  to  his 
reputation  by  being  the  farthest  from  the  center  of  action ;  —  it  was 
a  good  yard  wide  and  longer  than  the  longest  royal  brace  ever  rove 
through  a  block;  and  forty  times  each  day  Tony  must  unwind  it 
from  around  his  waist,  give  an  end  to  one  of  us,  with  a  warning 
to  keep  it  stretched  to  its  full  width,  and  march  off  down  the  street 
with  the  other  end.  There  he  would  take  the  first  turn  around  his 
body,  pull  the  sash  taut;  and  with  a  flutter  of  coat-tails  and  arms, 
up  the  street  would  come  Tony,  spinning  round  and  round  as  if  car- 
ried along  by  a  whirlwind,  until  he  reached  his  temporary  valet,  when 
he  would  heave  a  sigh  of  regret  because  the  belt  was  not  longer,  or 
brighter,  or  wider,  or  didn't  make  him  look  enough  like  the  spool 
on  which  a  bolt  of  cloth  is  wound,  or  for  some  other  reason  quite  be- 
yond our  comprehension ;  and,  tucking  in  the  end,  would  tag  at  the 
queue  of  our  company  to  some  other  section  of  the  city,  there  to 
unwind  and  wind  himself  up  again. 

Workers  were  a  drug  on  the  market  in  Marseilles.  There  was  one 
happy  day  when,  in  wandering  about  the  vieux  port,  where  the  fleet 
of  "  wind-jammers  "  was  rolling  and  pitching  in  a  heavy  gale,  I  was 
promised  extraordinary  wages  by  the  captain  of  a  clumsy  barken- 
tine,  flying  the  checkerboard  Greek  flag,  to  help  his  depleted  crew 
move  the  craft  to  a  safer  mooring.  He  had  picked  up  the  Antiguan 
and  —  strange  to  relate  —  Tony  of  the  Belt;  and  together  we  tugged 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  ''  IN  MARSEILLES  95 

at  hawser  and  brace  for  several  hours,  while  the  barkentine  under  our 
feet  seemed  undetermined  after  each  roll  whether  to  right  herself 
again  or  turn  turtle.  But  we  got  her  re-moored  at  last,  and  the  three 
francs  which  the  skipper  dropped  into  my  hand  had  a  merry  jingle 
which  I  had  almost  forgotten.  A  day's  work  in  the  fish-market  won 
me  as  much  more,  and  I  seemed  to  have  struck  prosperity  when,  the 
following  morning,  I  spent  three  hours  in  rolling  wine-barrels  onto 
harbor  trucks.  But  the  only  reward  which  the  truckman  and  the  offi- 
cial taster  offered  when  the  task  was  done  was  "  all  the  wine  you  can 
hold,"  and  my  humble  capacity  forced  me  to  accept  much  less  than 
union  wages.  The  six-franc  fortune  dwindled  gradually  away,  though 
I  spent  it  sparingly  to  supplement  the  meager  fare  of  Pete's  table, 
or  for  an  occasional  investment  of  two  sous  in  tobacco.  The  French 
government  does  not  sell  the  weed  in  such  small  quantities.  But 
"  beachcombers  "  hesitated  to  spend  a  half-franc  all  at  once,  especially 
as  the  invariable  word  of  greeting  from  seemingly  countless  ac- 
quaintances was,  "  Any  smokin'  on  you,  Jack  ?  "  and  the  dealers  —  in- 
different to  the  law  and  with  an  eye  to  business  —  broke  up  the  legal 
ten-sous  packets  into  ten  two-sous  lots,  in  their  own  wrappings.  There 
were  fellow-boarders  who  laughed  at  my  extravagance.  They  sal- 
lied forth  in  the  morning  before  the  street-sweepers  had  made  their 
daily  round,  and  tramped  up  and  down  the  Cannebiere,  a  main 
thoroughfare  which  evening  promenaders  littered  with  cigar  and 
cigarette  butts.  But  the  Anglo-Saxons,  for  the  most  part,  refused  to 
employ  their  talents  in  "  shooting  snipes  on  the  Can  o'  Beer." 

The  boarding-masters  of  Marseilles  refused  to  believe  my  assertion 
that  I  was  bound  away  from,  and  not  towards,  my  native  land. 
Three  times  during  my  stay  with  Pete,  I  was  called  upon  to  sign  on  — 
once  on  a  collier  for  Algiers,  and  twice  on  tramps  bound  for  the 
"  States."  My  refusal  to  accept  these  berths  aroused  the  ire  of  Joe ; 
and,  on  the  day  following  the  sailing  of  the  last  craft,  I  was  turned 
out  dinnerless  from  Pete's  domicile  on  a  world  that  had  grown  de- 
cidedly cold  for  a  southern  country.  I  could  not  greatly  regret  this 
ejection ;  it  left  Joe  unable  to  make  a  demand  on  my  wages,  should 
I  ever  sign  on.  My  list  of  acquaintances  had  increased;  on  some 
occasions  I  had  spent  a  few  sous  to  relieve  the  hunger  of  some  un- 
housed beachcomber,  and  the  thoughtfulness  stood  me  now  in  good 
stead.  As  I  wandered  from  Pete's  house  down  to  the  Place  de 
la  Joliette,  I  fell  upon  one  of  these,  a  little,  wizened  Alexandrian 
Jew,  who  had  "  just  made  a  haul  of  a  franc  "  which,  with  that  un- 


96      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

selfishness  universal  "  on  the  beach,"  he  oft'erecl  at  once  to  share.  That 
night  I  found  myself  again  in  the  crowd  before  the  Asile  de  Nuit. 

Quarrels  were  frequent  among  the  destitutes  who  collected  at  the 
asylum,  but  not  often  was  it  the  scene  of  such  a  tragedy  as  was  en- 
acted on  this  frosty  evening.  Five  minutes  after  I  had  joined  the 
group  before  the  building,  a  begrimed  and  tattered  youth  strolled  up 
to  within  a  few  feet  of  me,  glanced  about  him,  pulled  a  revolver  from 
his  pocket,  fired  instantly  at  a  group  of  vagabonds  who  chatted  on 
the  curb  ten  feet  away,  and  dashed  off  towards  the  harbor.  The  vic- 
tim, a  German  who  could  not  have  been  over  twenty,  fell  with  scarcely 
a  groan,  rolled  off  the  sidewalk  into  the  gutter,  gave  a  few  convulsive 
kicks,  and  lay  still.  A  doctor  arrived  as  he  was  being  carried  into  the 
office.  He  had  been  shot  directly  through  the  heart.  My  first  im- 
pulse, when  two  gendarmes  began  inscribing  the  names  of  witnesses, 
was  to  offer  my  testimony.  Luckily,  it  occurred  to  me  in  time  that 
justice  is  a  slow  process  in  France,  and  that  authorities  are  none 
too  kind  in  their  methods  of  assuring  the  presence  in  court  of  such 
witnesses  as  lodge  at  an  Asile  de  Nuit.  To  be  delayed  in  Marseilles 
several  months  would  have  put  an  end  to  my  wanderings  before  they 
had  well  begun;  I  backed  towards  the  outskirts  of  the  increasing 
crowd  and  made  answer  to  the  excited  officer  with  the  book ;  — "  Moi, 
monsieur?     Je  viens  d'arriver." 

The  assassin  was  taken,  before  morning,  and  his  story  added  to  the 
annals  of  "  the  road."  The  dead  man  had  been  his  companion  during 
his  Wander jahre  in  Servia.  The  few  dollars  that  had  been  their  com- 
mon possession  he  had  trusted  to  his  comrade  —  no  unusual  custom 
among  tramps.  At  a  dismal  mountain  village  the  treasurer  had  de- 
camped, leaving  the  other  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  Servian  po- 
lice. When  he  was  released  from  several  weeks  of  imprisonment  as 
a  vagrant,  the  deserted  man  determined  to  have  revenge.  By  meth- 
ods peculiar  to  trampdom,  and  with  a  persistency  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  the  best  of  detectives,  he  had  tracked  the  absconder 
through  Montenegro,  the  Turkish  coast-towns,  and  Italy,  only  to  lose 
all  trace  of  him  in  Genoa.  A  chance  meeting  put  him  on  the  trail 
again;  he  tramped  to  Marseilles  and  ran  the  German  youth  to  earth 
five  months  after  his  act  of  treachery.  The  sympathy  of  the  beach- 
combers was  entirely  with  the  assassin.  In  the  moral  code  of  "  the 
road  "  there  are  few  crimes  more  iniquitous  than  that  of  the  dead 
man.  But  sympathy  availed  him  nothing,  for  months  afterward  the 
youth  was  guillotined  in  the  Place  Victor  Gelu,  that  dreary  square  in 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  ''  IN  MARSEILLES  97 

which  Portuguese  Joe  and  penniless  seamen  were  accustomed  to  "  hang 
around." 

When  excitement  had  abated  somewhat,  the  Asile  was  thrown  open 

—  not  for  me,  however.     The  second  frere  received  my  papers  from 
his  superior,  as  on  the  first  night,  but  squinted  at  me  above  his  glasses. 

"  Lodged  here  before  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes." 

"When?" 

"  Two  weeks  ago." 

"  Then  I  can't  admit  you." 

"  But  I  only  stayed  five  of  my  eight  days." 

"  (Ja  ne  fait  rien !  When  you  have  been  admitted  once  you  can't 
come  back  again  for  six  months.     Allez-vous  en !  " 

This  mandate  proved  inexorable.  When  I  attempted  to  argue  the 
matter  a  burly  doorkeeper  sent  me  spinning  into  the  street.  I  wan- 
dered away  through  the  city  and,  towards  midnight,  turned  down  to 
the  wharves.  An  empty  box  car  stood  behind  a  warehouse.  I 
crawled  inside  to  find  it  already  occupied  by  three  English  sailors  of 
former  acquaintance.  To  sleep  was  impossible,  for  it  was  bitter  cold. 
After  a  couple  of  hours  of  shivering  on  the  icy  floor  of  the  car,  we 
crept  out  and  took  to  tramping  up  and  down  the  streets  and  byways 

—  that  most  dismal  experience,  known  professionally  as  "  carrying  the 
banner  " —  until  daybreak. 

Long,  hungry  days  passed,  days  in  which  I  could  scarcely  with- 
stand the  temptation  to  carry  my  kodak  to  the  mont  de  piete  just  off 
the  sailors'  square.  Among  the  beachcombers  there  were  daily  some 
who  gained  a  few  francs,  by  an  odd  job,  by  the  sale  of  an  extra 
garment,  or  by  "  grafting,"  pure  and  simple.  When  his  hand  closed 
on  a  bit  of  money,  the  stranded  fellow  may  have  been  weak  with  fast- 
ing. Yet  his  first  thought  was  not  to  gorge  himself,  but  t©  share  his 
fortune  with  his  companions  under  hatches.  In  those  bleak  Novem- 
ber days,  many  a  man,  ranked  a  "  worthless  outcast "  by  his  more 
fortunate  fellow-beings,  toiled  all  day  at  the  coal-wharves  of  Mar- 
seilles, and  tramped  back,  cold  and  hungry,  to  the  Place  Victor  Gelu  to 
divide  his  earning  with  other  famished  miserahles,  whom  he  had  not 
known  a  week  before.  More  than  one  man  sold  the  only  shirt  he 
owned  to  feed  a  new  arrival  who  was  an  absolute  stranger  to  all. 
These  men  won  no  praise  for  their  benefactions.  They  expected  none, 
and  would  have  opened  their  eyes  in  wonder  if  they  had  been  told  that 
their  actions  were  worthy  of  praise.  The  stranded  band  grew  to  be 
7 


98      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

a  corporate  body.  By  a  job  here  and  there  I  contributed  my  share  to 
the  common  fund,  and  between  us  we  fought  off  gaunt  starvation. 
In  a  dirty  alley  just  off  the  Place  was  an  inn  kept  by  a  Greek,  in  which 
one  could  sleep  on  the  floor  at  three  sous,  or  in  a  cot  at  six ;  and  every 
evening  a  band  of  ragged  mortals  might  have  been  seen  dividing  the 
earnings  of  some  of  them  into  three-sou  lots  as  they  made  their  way 
towards  I'Auherge  chez  le  Grec. 

One  spot  in  all  Marseilles  was  the  sole  oasis  in  this  desert  of  dreari- 
ness and  desolation,  the  Sailors'  Home.  Here,  as  winter  drove  us 
away  from  the  sunny  side  of  the  breakwater,  where  we  had  been  able 
to  swim  in  early  November,  we  congregated  around  the  roaring  stove 
to  discuss  the  hopelessness  of  the  situation,  and  to  peruse  the  news- 
papers that  kept  us  somewhat  in  touch  with  the  moving  world  out- 
side. But  when  dusk  fell,  the  doors  were  closed  behind  us,  and  the 
biting  air  and  the  squalor  of  other  quarters  were  only  increased  by 
contrast.  I  turned  in  at  the  Home  one  morning,  to  find  that  misfor- 
tune had  overtaken  the  three  Englishmen  of  the  box  car.  My  first 
acquaintance  had  arrived  in  Marseilles  in  the  thinnest  of  overalls 
and  jumper.  Man  can  endure  far  more  than  most  of  us  suspect;  but 
night  after  night  out  of  doors  in  such  garb  had  broken  the  health 
of  the  Englishman,  and  the  gendarme  who  had  found  him  unconscious 
on  the  wharf  had  bundled  him  off  to  the  Home.  Sick  as  he  was,  it 
took  four  days  of  official  red-tape  and  nonsense  to  get  him  admitted 
to  the  hospital,  and  it  was  only  by  strenuous  efforts  that  we  were  able 
to  pay  his  bad  chez  le  Grec  while  the  question  was  pending.  His  two 
companions  had  deserted  from  the  British  navy  in  Buenos  Ayres, 
changed  in  name  and  dress,  and  signed  on  a  "  wind-jammer "  for 
Genoa.  To  escape  the  king's  service  had  cost  them  months  of  labor 
and  danger,  a  year's  wages,  and  their  possessions.  Nothing  will  better 
indicate  the  misery  of  Marseilles  on  strike  than  the  fact  that,  with  six 
months'  imprisonment  at  Gibraltar  and  a  re-serving  of  their  time  in 
prospect,  they  had  resolved  to  endure  "  the  beach  "  no  longer,  and  had 
marched  up  to  the  consul's  office  to  give  themselves  up.  They  were 
held  under  arrest  at  the  Home  for  the  first  British  steamer  for  the 
Rock. 

There  were  those  among  the  beachcombers  who  would  not  be  out- 
done by  the  force  of  circumstances,  who  put  on  a  bold  front  and  set 
out  to  get  the  *'  living  the  world  owed  them."  In  beggardom  as  in  the 
world  at  large,  the  brazen  face  carries  the  day,  and  the  modest  and 
unassuming  are  pushed  into  the  background.     Among  the  first  vie- 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  99 

tims  of  this  class,  in  foreign  ports,  are  the  consuls.  There  was  in 
Marseilles  a  certain  Welshman  who  won, fame  for  his  exploits  during 
this  season.  Signed  off  in  Barcelona,  he  had  made  his  way  to  the 
French  port,  and  had  received  from  the  British  consul,  within  an  hour 
of  his  arrival,  two  francs  and  a  promise  of  clothes,  next  day.  In  the 
morning,  as  per  promise,  he  was  well  fitted  out  and  given  another 
franc.  He  promptly  hunted  up  a  pawn  shop,  got  back  into  his  rags, 
and  made  tracks  for  the  nearest  wine-shop.  Next  morning,  penniless, 
he  was  back  early  to  see  the  consul,  spun  a  pathetic  yarn,  and  came 
out  with  two  more  francs.  This  amount,  however,  could  not  last  long 
in  a  cafe.  The  Welshman  pocketed  the  money,  marched  over  to  the 
American  consulate,  and  proved  so  satisfactorily  that  Pittsburg  was 
his  home  that  two  more  francs  were  added  to  his  collection.  Day  after 
day  new  variations  of  his  story  were  sprung  in  all  sections  of  the  city. 
On  his  ability  to  speak  some  German,  he  "  worked  "  the  Austrian, 
Swiss,  and  German  consuls,  besides  several  foreign  charitable  societies. 
These  institutions  gave  only  clothing  for  the  most  part,  but  one  of 
the  Welshman's  experience  had  little  difficulty  in  turning  them  into 
money. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  "  pumping "  his  own  consul,  who  twice  more 
fitted  him  out,  only  to  have  him  turn  up  again  next  morning  as  ragged 
and  unkempt  as  ever.  The  consul  was  not  blind,  but  when  a  vagabond 
sits  down  in  your  office  and  refuses  to  move  until  he  receives  a  franc, 
it  is  often  cheaper  to  give  it  than  to  take  time  to  throw  him  out.  The 
day  came,  however,  when  the  consul  determined  to  put  an  end  to  this 
system  of  blackmail,  and,  after  giving  the  customary  franc  one  morn- 
ing, he  ordered  the  Welshman  not  to  come  back  again  under  pain  of 
arrest.  Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  the  "  beachcomber  "  turned 
up,  a  strong  smell  of  absinthe  entering  the  room  with  him. 

"  Good  morning,  consul,"  he  burst  out,  gaily,  and  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  those  of  us  who  were  listening  outside,  "  1  wonder  if  you  can 
spare  me  a  couple  of  francs  for  a  morning  bite  ?  " 

The  consul  stepped  to  the  telephone  and  called  for  a  policeman. 
A  few  minutes  later,  a  gendarme  pushed  past  us,  stepped  inside, 
and  received  orders  to  put  the  offender  under  arrest.  But  the  Welsh- 
man, who  lolled  undisturbed  in  an  office  chair  through  all  this,  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  make  himself  familiar  with  the  fine  points  of  in- 
ternational law.  He  grasped  a  heavy  ruler  from  the  table  as  the  officer 
approached. 

**  If  that  Frog-eater  touches  me,  I  '11  brain  'im,"  he  shouted,  "  I  'm  a 


100      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

British  subject  on  British  soil,  and  no  bloody  Frenchman  can  arrest 
me !  " 

The  consul  knew  only  too  well  the  truth  of  this  assertion.  A  French 
officer  has  no  more  authority  within  the  borders  of  a  foreign  consu- 
late than  on  London  Bridge,  and  any  injury  which  the  Welshman 
might  do  the  gendarme  in  resisting  arrest  would  come  under  the  head 
of  justifiable  self-defense.  The  consul,  however,  had  police  powers  in 
his  own  office.  He  took  the  belligerent  seaman  by  the  arm,  led  him 
outside  onto  the  soil  of  France,  and  turned  him  over  to  the  policeman. 
The  officer  conducted  him  to  the  station-house  across  the  way,  while 
several  of  us  tagged  after  him. 

"  Where  was  he  arrested  ?  "  demanded  the  sergeant. 

"  In  the  British  consulate,  monsieur." 

"  Vraiment !  And  the  British  consul  has  sent  money  for  his  keep- 
ing while  he  is  shut  up,  eh  ?  " 

*'  Non,  monsieur." 

"  Non  ?  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  bringing  him  over  here  ? 
Allez !  Vous ! "  and  the  Welshman,  who  knew  all  this  process,  move 
by  move,  made  a  deep  bow  to  the  sergeant,  stuck  his  thumbs  in  the 
armholes  of  his  tattered  vest,  strutted  out  across  the  park,  and  back 
into  the  consulate. 

"  Good  morning,  consul !  "  he  cried,  with  the  blandest  of  smiles,  and 
extending  a  gnarled  and  far  from  clean  hand.  "  I  've  just  escaped  from 
grave  danger,  consul,  and  I  Ve  come  back  to  see  if,  perhaps,  you 
haven't  changed  your  mind  about  that  couple  of  francs." 

The  consul  looked  him  over,  glanced  at  the  stack  of  letters  and 
official  papers  that  demanded  his  attention,  and,  with  the  sheepish 
look  of  a  man  who  feels  he  is  being  made  game  of,  "admitted  that 
he  had. 

There  ran  through  the  shipping  quarters  one  morning  the  rumor  that 
the  "  Dag  "  was  signing  on  a  crew.  She  was  a  tiny  wooden  brigantine 
under  Norwegian  colors,  anchored  in  the  vieux  port.  She  carried  a 
mere  handful  of  men,  was  reported  as  "  the  hungriest  hell  that  ever 
weighed  an  anchor,"  and  did  not  look  seaworthy  enough  to  cross  an 
inland  lake.  Moreover  she  was  bound  for  Madagascar  by  way  of  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  a  six-month  trip  at  least.  This  was  not  the  route 
I  had  mapped  out  for  myself.  But  it  was  eastward,  twenty-five  days 
in  Marseilles  had  left  me  ready  to  jump  at  any  chance,  and  I  raced 
down  to  the  old  harbor  with  the  rest.  It  was  only  a  chance  meeting 
with  "  Dutch  Harry,"  another  of  the  rascally  boarding  masters  of  the 


A  "  BEACHCOMBER  "  IN  MARSEILLES  loi 

port,  that  saved  me  from  putting  my  name  on  the  "  Dag's  "  articles. 
"  Dutch  "  had  a  contract  with  the  agents  of  a  tramp  steamer  from 
Boston  to  supply  a  force  of  seamen  to  paint  the  vessel  in  harbor ;  and 
an  hour  later  I  was  hanging  over  the  side  on  a  swinging  plank  with 
the  waves  of  the  rade  washing  over  my  feet,  daubing  paint  on  the 
rusty  hull.  The  boarding  master  received  six  francs  a  day  for  our 
labor  —  and  paid  us  two  and  a  half.  But  we  took  our  meals  with  the 
crew  —  whenever  the  captain  was  ashore  —  and  I  saved  enough  to  come 
to  the  assistance  of  several  of  my  fellow  destitutes,  among  whom  was 
the  wizened  Jew,  who  had  once  more  fallen  on  evil  days. 

This  work  lasted  several  days.  I  was  mixing  paint  on  deck,  one 
afternoon,  when  the  chief  mate,  strolled  by,  sauntered  back,  turned 
to  look  away  across  the  harbor  as  though  he  had  not  seen  me  within 
five  feet  of  him,  and  muttered  as  to  himself,  "  We  're  going  out  to- 
night, homeward  bound  for  Boston.  The  company  don't  allow  us  any 
too  many  men.  If  some  of  these  painters  was  found  stowed  away 
on  'er  after  the  pilot  left  'er,  I  don't  suppose  the  old  man  would  do 
a  hell  of  a  lot  o'  kicking."  Then  he  turned  until  he  could  glance  at  me 
out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye,  looked  off  across  the  harbor  once  more, 
swung  round  on  his  heel,  and  marched  aft. 

If  the  ship  had  been  eastward  bound,  the  mate's  hint  would  have 
fallen  on  fertile  soil.  Several  painters  disappeared  during  the  after- 
noon and  they  did  not  go  ashore.  I  took  supper  with  the  crew  when 
the  day  was  done,  watched  from  the  pier-head  as  the  newly-painted 
vessel  turned  her  prow  to  the  open  sea,  and  hurried  back  to  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  boarding  master.  "  Dutch  "  was  indeed  wrathy  —  espe- 
cially as  I  had  called  for  two  and  a  half  francs  that  he  had  considered 
safe  in  his  pocket.  When  I  opened  the  door  of  his  wine-shop,  he 
stared  at  me  from  behind  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke  and  a  tall  bottle 
of  greenish  contents  for  several  moments.  Then  with  a  roar  that 
only  Portuguese  Pete  of  all  Marseilles  could  have  equaled,  he  burst 
out,  "  Why,  you  damn  fool,  why  in  hell  did  n't  you  stow  away  on  that 
tub  ?    Did  n't  you  know  she  was  Boston  bound  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  I  answered.  "  But  I  told  you,  you  remember,  I  'm  not  home- 
ward bound." 

Several  ships  bound  for  Egypt  signed  on  a  man  or  two  during  the 
next  few  days,  but  they  were  all  "  boarding-house  stiffs."  When  the 
mate  of  the  P  &  O  yacht  Vectis  sent  to  the  Home  for  an  English 
quartermaster,  I  fancied  my  time  had  come,  as  there  was  not  another 
English-speaking  sailor  "  on  the  beach  "  after  the  arrest  of  the  de- 


102       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

serters.  But  the  P  &  O  ships  only  Britons.  The  next  day  my  first 
acquaintance  was  released  from  the  hospital  and  secured  the  berth. 

The  last  day  of  November,  a  month  after  my  arrival  in  Marseilles, 
found  me  still  gazing  out  upon  the  Chateau  d'lf  and  up  at  the  ship's 
ball  on  the  summit  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  and  still  tramping 
sorrowfully  up  and  down  the  breakwater  and  the  endless  wharves. 
But  with  the  new  month  my  luck  changed.  The  Warwickshire  of  the 
Bibby  Line,  plying  between  England  and  Burma,  put  in  at  Marseilles 
to  await  her  overland  passengers  and  sent  out  a  call  for  a  sailor.  I 
was  the  first  man  on  board,  displayed  my  discharge  from  the  cattle 
boat,  and  was  called  into  the  cabin. 

"  It  don't  tell  in  this  discharge  whether  you  are  an  A.  B.  or  not," 
said  the  mate.     "  Are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  an  A.  B.,"  I  repHed,  though  I  meant  quite  a  different  sort 
of  A.  B.  from  what  the  mate  understood  by  my  answer.  I  was 
signed  on  at  once,  and  the  next  day  I  watched  the  familiar  harbor  of 
Marseilles  grow  smaller  and  smaller  until  it  faded  away  on  the  horizon. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    ARAB    WORLD 

ON  a  placid  sea  the  Warwickshire  sped  eastward,  sighting 
the  mountain  ranges  of  Corsica  and  Sardinia,  and  sweeping 
through  the  straits  of  Messina  so  close  to  the  Sicilian  shore 
that  we  could  make  out  plainly,  from  the  deck,  the  evening  strollers 
on  the  brightly-lighted  promenade.  The  crew  was  East  Indian.  The 
white  quartermasters  with  whom  I  messed  were  gorged  with  such  food 
as  only  a  French  chef  can  cook,  and  valiantly  I  struggled  to  make 
up  for  those  famished  days  in  the  dismal  streets  of  Marseilles.  My 
official  duties  were  largely  confined  to  "  polishin'  'er  brasses,"  and,  with 
all  due  modesty,  I  assert  that  the  ship  was  the  brighter  for  my  pres- 
ence. The  Bibby  Line  scorned  to  carry  any  but  first-class  passengers. 
I  took  my  "  watch  below "  within  easy  hailing  distance  of  the 
promenade  deck  and  those  belinened  voyagers  to  whom  the  custom 
of  tipping  for  every  possible  service  had  become  second  nature,  and 
picked  up  many  a  franc  and  six-pence  among  them. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  out  the  brasses  were  pronounced 
in  a  satisfactory  condition,  and  I  was  ordered  into  the  hold,  with  a 
score  of  the  native  crew,  to  send  up  the  trunks  of  Egyptian  travelers. 
The  weather  grew  perceptibly  warmer  with  every  throb  of  the  engines. 
When  I  climbed  on  deck  after  the  last  chest,  the  deep  blue  of  the 
ocean  had  turned  to  a  shabby  brown,  but  the  horizon  was  still  un- 
broken. Suddenly  there  rose  from  the  sea,  on  our  starboard  bow,  as 
a  marionette  bobs  up  in  a  puppet-show,  a  flat-topped  building,  then 
another  and  another,  until  a  whole  village,  the  houses  of  which  seemed 
to  sit  like  gulls  on  the  ruddy  sea,  spread  out  before  us-  It  was  Port 
Said.  The  pilot-boat  had  swung  alongside  and  the  statue  of  de  Les- 
seps  was  plainly  visible  before  we  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  land,  a 
narrow  stretch  of  reddish  desert  sand  beyond  the  town.  Slowly  the 
Wanvickshire  nosed  her  way  into  the  canal,  the  anchor  ran  out  with  a 
rattle  and  roar  of  cable,  and  there  swarmed  upon  our  decks  a  count- 
less multitude  of  humans,  that  seemed  the  denizens  of  some  remote 
and  unknown  sphere. 

103 


1 


104       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Darkness  fell  soon  after.  I  had  signed  on  the  Warzvickshire  under 
a  promise  that  I  might  leave  her  at  Port  Said.  Through  all  the 
voyage,  however,  the  quartermasters  had  spent  the  hours  of  the  dog- 
watch in  pouring  into  my  ears  tales  of  the  horrors  that  had  befallen 
white  men  stranded  among  the  Arabs.  The  shrieks  that  rose  from  the 
maze  of  buildings  ashore,  the  snarling,  scowling  mobs  that  raced 
about  our  decks,  called  back  these  stories  all  too  vividly.  In  the 
blackest  of  nights,  this  new  and  unknown  world  was  in  imagination 
peopled  with  diabolical  creatures  lying  in  wait  for  lone  mortals  who 
might  venture  ashore  unarmed  and  well-nigh  penniless.  If  I  escaped 
a  quick  assassination  among  these  black  hordes,  a  lingering  starva- 
tion on  this  neck  of  sand  might  be  my  lot.  The  captain  had  given 
me  leave  to  continue  to  Rangoon.  An  Englishman,  returning  to  the 
Burmese  district  he  governed,  had  promised  me  a  well-salaried  posi- 
tion. Most  foolhardy  it  seemed  to  halt  in  this  "  dumping  ground  of 
rascality "  when  in  a  few  days  I  might  complete  half  my  journey 
around  the  globe  and  find  a  ready  employment. 

For  an  hour  I  sat  undecided,  staring  into  the  black  inferno  beyond 
the  wharves.  Palestine  and  Egypt,  however,  were  lands  too  famous 
to  be  lightly  passed  by.  I  bade  farewell  to  the  astonished  quarter- 
masters, collected  my  few  days'  wages  from  the  mate,  and  with  some 
two  pounds  in  francs,  lire,  and  shillings  in  my  pocket,  dropped  into 
a  feluca  and  was  rowed  ashore. 

A  scene  typically  Oriental  graced  my  landing.  In  my  ignorance,  I 
had  neglected  to  spend  a  half-hour  in  bargaining  with  the  swarthy 
boatman  before  stepping  into  his  craft.  That  the  legal  fare  I  paid 
him  was  posted  conspicuously  on  the  wharf  made  him  none  the  less 
assertive  in  his  demands.  For  an  hour  he  dogged  my  footsteps,  howl- , 
ing  threats  or  whining  pleas  in  a  cracked  treble,  now  in  his  native 
Arabic,  now  in  such  English  as  he  could  muster.  The  summary  venge- 
ance of  the  Islamites,  prophesied  with  such  fullness  of  detail  by  my 
shipmates,  seemed  at  hand ;  but  I  shook  the  fellow  off  at  last  and  set 
out  to  find  a  lodging. 

The  task  at  which  I  had  grown  so  proficient  in  Europe  was  a  far 
more  difficult  problem  in  this  strange  world.  To  be  sure,  there  were 
several  hotels  along  the  avenue  facing  the  wharves,  before  which  well- 
dressed  white  men  lounged  at  little  tables ;  and  black,  barefooted 
waiters  flitted  back  and  forth,  carrying  cool  drinks  that  we  of  America 
are  wont  to  associate  with  August  mid-days  rather  than  with  Decem- 
ber evenings.     But  a  strong  financial  backing  is  nowhere  so  indispen- 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  ro5 

sable  as  in  hostelries  offering  "  European  accommodations  "  in  the 
Orient.  There  were,  undoubtedly,  scores  of  native  inns  in  the  maze 
of  hovels  into  which  I  plunged  at  the  first  step  off  the  avenue,  but 
how  distinguish  them  when  the  only  signs  that  met  my  eye  were 
as  meaningless  as  so  many  spatters  of  ink?  Even  in  Holland  I  had 
been  able  to  guess  at  shop  names.  But  Arabic !  I  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  whether  the  ensign  before  me  announced  a  lodging  house  or  the 
quarters  of  an  undertaker.  I  returned  to  the  avenue ;  but  the  few 
white  men  who  paused  to  listen  to  my  inquiry  for  a  "  native  "  hotel 
stared  at  me  as  at  one  who  had  lost  his  wits,  and  passed  on  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  A  long  evening  I  pattered  in  and  out  of 
crooked  byways,  bumping  now  and  then  into  a  swarthy  Mus- 
sulman who  snarled  at  me  and  made  off,  and  bringing  up  here  and  there 
in  some  dismal  blind  alley.  Fearful  of  wandering  too  far  from  the 
lighted  square,  I  turned  back  toward  the  harbor  and  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  a  sign  in  English :  "  Catholic  Sailors'  Home."  Whether 
the  establishment  was  Catholic  or  Coptic  was  small  matter,  so  long  as 
it  announced  itself  in  a  human  language,  and  I  dashed  joyfully 
towards  it. 

The  "  Home "  comprised  little  more  than  a  small  reading-room. 
Half-hidden  behind  the  stacks  of  ragged  magazines  sat  the  "  manager," 
a  Maltese  boy,  huddled  over  paper  and  pencil  and  staring  disconsolately 
at  an  Italian-English  grammar.  I  stepped  forward  and  offered  my 
assistance,  and  together  we  waded  through  an  interminable  lesson. 
Before  we  had  ended,  six  tattered  white  men  wandered  in  and  care- 
fully chose  books  over  which  to  fall  asleep. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  the  manager,  as  he  closed  the  grammar, 
"  that  there  am  no  sleepings  here.  And  we  closes  at  eleven.  But  I 
am  fix  you  oop.  I  am  shelter  all  these  seamans  while  I  lose  my  place 
when  the  Catholic  society  found  it  out." 

He  peered  out  into  the  night,  locked  the  doors,  blew  out  the  lights, 
and  aroused  the  sleepers.  We  groped  our  way  along  a  stone-paved 
corridor  to  the  back  of  the  building. 

"  You  are  getting  in  here,"  said  the  Maltese,  pulling  open  what 
proved  by  morning  light  to  be  a  heavy  pair  of  shutters,  "  but  be  quiet- 
ness." 

I  climbed  through  after  the  others.  A  companion  struck  a  match 
that  lighted  up  a  stone  room  eight  feet  square,  once  the  kitchen  of 
the  Home.  Closely  packed  as  we  were,  it  soon  grew  icy  cold  on  the 
stone  floor.     Two  "  beachcombers  "  rose  with  exclamations  of  disgust 


io6       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

and  crawled  out  through  the  window,  to  tramp  up  and  down  the  cor- 
ridor. I  groped  my  way  to  a  coffin-shaped  cupboard  in  one  corner, 
laid  it  lengthwise  on  the  floor,  pulled  out  the  shelves,  and,  crawling 
inside,  closed  the  doors  above  me.  My  sleep  was  unbroken  until 
morning. 

By  the  light  of  day  my  bedfellows,  squatted  against  the  wall  of 
the  corridor,  formed  a  heterogeneous  group.  At  one  end  sat  a  Boer 
dressed  in  heavy,  woolen  garments  of  the  veldt,  of  a  faded,  weather- 
beaten  condition  startlingly  in  keeping  with  the  bronzed  and  be- 
whiskered  countenance  of  the  wearer.  A  seedy  Austrian  youth  lolled 
open-mouthed  between  the  South  African  and  an  oily  Turk.  A 
Liberian  negro  was  sharing  a  mangled  crust  with  a  Russian  Finn,  half- 
hidden  behind  a  forest  of  unpruned  whiskers.  A  ragged  Englishman 
stood  stiffly  erect  near  the  door. 

We  found  ample  time  to  divulge  the  secrets  of  our  past  before 
the  turnkey  came  to  release  us.  With  the  Englishman  I  strolled  down 
to  the  harbor.  Myriads  of  "  coaling  niggers,"  in  dirty,  loose  robes,  as 
indistinguishable  one  from  another  as  ants,  swarmed  up  the  sides  of 
newly-arrived  ships,  or  returned,  jaded  and  begrimed,  in  densely 
packed  boat-loads,  from  a  night  of  toil.  The  custom  police,  big,  pom- 
pous negroes  beside  whom  the  Arabs  seemed  light  colored,  strutted 
back  and  forth  within  the  wharf  enclosure.  As  each  band  of  heavers 
arrived,  the  officers  laid  aside  their  brilHant  fezes,  sHpped  over  their 
gay  uniforms  a  bag-like  garment  that  covered  them  to  their  gaitered 
shoes,  and  gathered  the  workmen,  one  by  one,  in  a  loving  embrace. 

"  Affectionate  fellows,  these  followers  of  the  prophet,"  I  mused. 

"  Aye,"  croaked  my  companion,  "  and  bloody  good  smugglers, 
dressed  in  them  dirty  skys'ls." 

They  live  in  coal,  these  heavers  of  Port  Said.  Their  beds,  their 
wives,  their  children,  the  merchants  with  whom  they  come  in  contact, 
even  the  little  baked  fish  which  bleary-eyed  females  sell  them  outside 
the  gates,  are  covered  with  its  dust. 

The  Englishman  knew  of  but  one  "  graft "  in  Port  Said.  Each 
day,  at  noon,  the  friars  of  a  Catholic  monastery  served  dinner  to 
the  penniless.  A  crowd  overwhelmingly  Oriental  lined  up  with  us 
under  the  trees  of  the  convent  garden  to  await  the  serene  pleasure  of 
the  tawny  Arab  who  dispensed  the  charity  of  the  priests.  Between  a 
Tartar  and  a  Nubian,  I  received,  after  long  delay,  a  deep  tin-plate,  a 
pewter  spoon,  and  a  misshapen  slice  of  bread.  The  entire  party  had 
lost  hope  of  obtaining  anything  more  edible,  when  the  monasterial 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  107 

servant  appeared  once  more,  straining  painfully  along  with  a  huge 
caldron  of  soup,  which  he  deposited  on  the  flat  grave-stone  of  a  de- 
funct friar.  As  we  filed  by  him,  the  Arab  tossed  at  each  of  us  a  la- 
dleful  of  the  boiling  concoction.  Whether  it  landed  in  our  plates  or 
distributed  itself  generously  over  our  nether  garments  depended  en- 
tirely on  our  own  dexterity,  for  the  haughty  server  dumped  the  ladle 
where,  in  his  opinion,  our  dishes  ought  to  have  been,  utterly  indif- 
ferent as  to  whether  they  were  there  or  not. 

The  Englishman  disappeared  next  day,  and  I  joined  fortunes  with 
the  seedy  Austrian.  With  a  daily  dinner  and  a  lodging,  even  in  a  cup- 
board, assured,  I  found  Port  Said  a  more  agreeable  halting-place  than 
Marseilles.  There  was  work  to  be  had  here,  too.  On  this  second 
afternoon  we  were  stretched  out  on  the  breakwater,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  statue  of  de  Lesseps,  watching  the  coming  and  going  of  the 
pilot-boats  and  the  sparkle  of  the  canal  that  dwindled  to  a  thread  on 
the  far  horizon  of  the  yellow  desert,  when  a  portly  Greek  approached 
and  asked,  in  Italian,  if  we  wanted  employment.  We  did,  of  course, 
and  followed  him  back  to  land  and  off  to  the  westward  along  the  beach 
to  a  hovel  in  the  native  section.  On  the  earth  floor  sat  two  massive 
stone  mortars.  The  Greek  motioned  to  us  to  seat  ourselves  before 
them,  poured  into  them  some  species  of  small  nut,  and  handed  each 
of  us  a  stone  pestle.  When  we  had  fallen  to  work,  he  sat  down  on  a 
stool,  prepared  his  narghileh  and,  except  for  an  occasional  wave  of  the 
hand  as  a  signal  to  us  to  empty  the  mortars  of  the  beaten  pulp  and 
refill  them,  remained  utterly  motionless  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Mechanically  we  pounded  hour  after  hour.  The  pestles  were  heavy 
when  we  began,  before  the  day  was  done  my  own  weighed  at  least  a 
ton.  What  we  were  beating  up  and  what,  in  the  name  of  Allah,  we 
were  beating  it  up  for,  I  do  not  know  to  this  day.  The  Austrian  as- 
serted that  he  knew  the  use  of  the  product,  but  fell  silent  when  I  asked 
to  be  enlightened.  Night  sounds  were  drifting  in  through  the  door 
of  the  hovel  when  the  Greek  signed  to  us  to  stop,  and  with  the  air  of 
one  who  feels  himself  to  be  over-generous  but  proud  of  his  fault, 
handed  each  of  us  five  small  piastres  (12}^  cents).  My  companion 
at  once  raised  his  voice  in  vociferous  protest,  in  which,  at  a  nudge  of 
his  elbow,  I  joined.  The  Greek  was  hurt  to  the  point  of  tears.  The 
ingratitude  of  man,  when  he  had,  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart, 
given  us  a  whole  day's  wages  for  a  half-day's  work!  How  could  we 
bring  ourselves  to  complain  when  he  had  cut  his  own  profit  in  half 
simply  because  we  were  men  of  his  own  color  for  whom  he  felt  an 


^qP  o       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

clown "  the  salesman.  The  officer  heaved  a  sigh  of  rehef  when  I 
handed  him  without  protest  the  five  piastres  demanded,  and  I  passed 
on,  still  wondering  why  I  had  been  taxed.  The  paper  was  in  French 
as  well  as  Turkish  and  informed  me  that  I  had  paid  for  disinfection. 

Some  time  after  the  last  man  had  paid  his  fee  —  the  female  passen- 
gers had  mysteriously  disappeared  —  a  second  door  swung  open,  an  offi- 
cial folded  our  papers,  tore  a  round  hole  in  them,  and  we  entered  a  room 
containing  several  long  tables.  An  unwashed  and  officious  Arab 
handed  to  each  of  us  a  garment  not  unlike  a  scanty  nightshirt,  and 
ordered  us  to  strip.  When  our  wardrobes  had  been  laid  out  on  the 
tables  in  separate  heaps,  a  half-dozen  ragged  urchins  appeared,  rolled 
each  heap  into  a  bundle,  and  disappeared  through  a  tight-fitting  steel 
door.  Disinfecting  a  Frank  was,  evidently,  a  new  problem  in  the 
Lazeret  of  Beirut.  An  urchin  stared  at  my  clothing,  bawled  something 
to  the  unwashed  official,  and  passed  me  by.  The  officer  picked  my 
garments  up  one  by  one  with  a  puzzled  air,  handed  me  my  sweater  and 
suspenders,  as  if  he  did  not  feel  that  such  mysterious  articles  could 
be  rated  as  clothing,  and  sped  away  with  the  rest. 

A  long  hour  passed.  The  nightshirts  lent  their  wearers  neither 
dignity  nor  modesty.  My  own  had  been  designed  for  the  smallest  of 
Arabs  and  did  a  white  man  meager  service,  but  the  jabbering  natives 
would  not  have  been  in  the  least  disturbed  if  their  wardrobe  had  been 
reduced  to  the  fig  leaf  of  notorious  past.  The  steel  door  opened.  We 
filed  into  the  next  room  and  found  our  disinfected  bundles  arrayed  on 
more  long  tables  and  steaming  like  newly-boiled  cabbages.  As  rapidly 
as  the  garments  cooled,  I  attired  myself  and  turned  out  upon  a  tiny 
square  before  the  Lazeret.  Suddenly  there  rang  out  a  cry  for  pass- 
ports. An  icy  bubble  ran  up  and  down  my  spine,  but  I  stepped  boldly 
forward  and  thrust  my  letter  of  introduction  into  the  face  of  a  diminu- 
tive, white-haired  officer  at  the  gate.  He  received  it  gingerly,  as  if  ex- 
pecting it  to  explode  in  his  hands,  turned  it  up  sidewise,  upside  down, 
sidewise  once  more,  and,  certain  that  he  had  found  its  proper  position, 
began  to  run  his  finger  up  and  down  the  lines,  mumbling  to  himself  and 
shaking  his  head  sagely  from  side  to  side.  Slowly  he  turned,  eyed 
me  suspiciously,  and  after  several  preliminary  gurgles,  wheezed: 
"  Paseeporto  ?     Paseeporto  ?  " 

"  Sure,  it 's  a  passeporto !  "  I  replied,  nodding  my  head  vigorously. 
The  officer  glanced  from  the  paper  to  my  faqe  and  back  at  the  paper 
several  times,  plainly  as  helpless  before  a  problem  for  which  he  knew 
no  precedent  as  a  child.     The  doctor  who  had  made  out  our  di  sin  fee- 


\ 

tion  sli 
read  a' 
the  le 
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I  a^ 
aiT 

S3 


f 


'ion  to 

0  one 

and, 

coin 

ver 

'es 

f 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  113 

coins  are  worth  the  same  as  a  bishleek  —  except  not  quite  —  that  is  — 
here  —  if  they  have  a  hole  in  them  they  are  worth  a  copper  and  three- 
fourths  —  more  —  that  is,  here  —  in  Damascus  they  are  worth  a  copper 
and  one-fourth  more,  and  this  dish-shaped  one  is  worth  three  bishleeks 
and  three  metleeks  and  two  coppers  and  sometimes  three-fourths  of  a 
copper  more,  except  they  with  holes  in  them  which  are  worth  two  met- 
leeks and  a  copper  and  a  half  more,  and  this  mejeedieh  is  worth  in 
Damascus  seven  bishleeks  and  seven  metleeks  and  two  coppers  and 
sometimes  three  and  sometimes  here  not  so  much  by  two  and  a  half 
coppers  and  in  Jerusalem  — " 

"And  suppose  it  is  a  rainy  day?" 

"  Oh,  that  does  not  make  any  difference,"  said  the  clerk,  with  owl- 
like solemnity,  "  but  sometimes  on  busy  days,  as  on  feast  days,  the 
bishleek  is  worth  three  coppers  and  a  half  more  —  that  is,  here  —  in 
Damascus  it  is  worth  two  more  and  sometimes  not  so  much  —  as  in 
Ramadan,  and  in  Sidon  it  is  worth  three-fourths  of  a  copper  less  and 
in  —  here  in  Beirut — " 

"  Hold  on,  efendee,"  I  cried.  "  H  you  have  a  pencil  and  a  ream  of 
paper  at  hand — " 

I  understood  his  explanation  perfectly,  of  course,  but  I  had  an  un- 
conquerable dread  of  forgetting  it  in  my  sleep. 

"  Certainly,"  cried  the  obliging  clerk,  and  he  dragged  forth  two 
sheets  of  paper  and  covered  both  with  figures.  Reduced  to  writ- 
ing, the  monetary  system  of  Syria  was  simplicity  itself.  One  could 
see  through  it  as  easily  as  through  six  inches  of  armor  plate. 

"  Now,  in  carting  this  around  — "  I  asked,  tucking  the  sheets  of 
paper  away  in  a  pocket,  "  you  don't  hire  a  porter  — " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  clerk,  "  you  have  not  the  large  purse  ?  Our  Syrians 
carry  a  purse  which  is  very  long,  which  is  long  like  the  stocking  which 
it  is  said  are  worn  by  the  lady;  but  if  you  have  not  such  a  long  purse 
and  you  have  not  any  ladies  — "  I  drew  out  a  large  handkerchief  and 
fell  to  raking  the  heap  of  coins  into  it.  "  Ah,"  he  cried,  *'  that  does 
very  good,  only  you  do  not  forget  that  in  Damascus  the  mejeedieh  is 
worth  seven  bishleeks  and  seven  metleeks  and  two  coppers  and  some- 
times— "  But  I  had  escaped  into  the  silence  outside. 

I  reduced  my  burden  somewhat  by  spending  the  heaviest  pieces  of 
junk  for  breakfast  and,  strolling  down  to  the  harbor,  sat  down  on  a 
pier.  The  bedlam  of  shrieking  stevedores,  braying  camels,  and  the 
rattle  of  discharging  ships  drowned  for  some  time  all  individual  sounds. 
In  a  sudden  lull,  I  caught  faintly  a  shout  in  English  behind  me  and 


114       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

turned  around.  A  lean  native  in  European  dress  and  fez  was  beckon- 
ing to  me  from  the  opening  of  one  of  the  narrow  streets.  I  dropped 
from  the  pier  and  turned  shoreward.  The  native  ran  towards  me. 
"  You  speak  Eengleesh  ?  "  he  cried,  "  Yes  ?  No  ?  What  countryman 
you?" 

"  American." 

"  No  ?  Not  American  ?  "  shrieked  the  native,  dancing  up  and  down, 
"  You  not  American  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ver'  fine.  I  American  one  time,  too. 
I  be  one  time  sailor  on  American  warsheep  Brooklyn.  You  know 
Brooklyn?  Ver'  nice  sheep,  Brooklyn.  You  write  Eengleesh,  too, 
No?  Yes?  Ver'  fine!  You  like  job?  I  got  letters  write  in  Eeng- 
leesh !     Come,  you !  " 

He  led  the  way  through  the  swarming  bazaar,  shouting  answers  to 
the  questions  I  put  to  him.  He  claimed  the  name  of  Abdul  Razac 
Bundak  and  the  profession  of  "  bumboat-man,"  one  of  those  familiar 
figures  of  Oriental  ports,  a  native  who  had  picked  up  a  fluent  use  of 
so-called  English,  the  language  of  the  shipping  world,  and  turned 
it  to  practicable  account.  His  activities  were  varied.  He  sold  sup- 
plies to  foreign  ships,  acted  as  interpreter  for  officers  ashore,  led 
tourists  on  sight-seeing  expeditions,  and,  in  the  busy  season,  ran  a 
sailors'  boarding  house. 

Some  distance  back  from  the  harbor,  in  a  shoe  shop  kept  by  his 
uncle,  I  sat  down  to  write  three  letters  at  Bundak's  dictation.  By 
the  time  we  had  finished  them  —  and  a  dozen  cigatettes  —  my  familiar- 
ity with  other  languages  had  leaked  out,  and  I  wrote  three  more,  two 
in  French  and  one  in  Spanish.  With  one  exception,  all  six  were  bids 
to  ship  captains  accustomed  to  visit  Beirut.  The  bumboat-man  paid 
me  two  unknown  coins,  and  "  set  up  "  a  dinner  in  a  neighboring  shop. 

That  afternoon  we  piloted  a  party  of  Germans  through  the  laby- 
rinthian  bazaars  and  out  across  the  orange  groves  to  Dog  River. 
Abdul  chattered  in  his  pidgin  English,  and  I  strove  to  turn  his  uncouth 
speech  into  the  language  of  the  Fatherland.  In  the  days  that  followed, 
our  "  company,"  as  Abdul  styled  it,  was  the  busiest  in  Beirut.  The 
fame  of  Bundak's  "  faranchee  secretary  "  spread  abroad.  The  scribes 
who  sat  in  their  little  stands  in  the  market-places  were  called  upon 
now  and  then  to  pen  letters  in  some  European  language.  Hitherto, 
they  had  refused  such  commissions.  Now  they  despatched  an  urchin 
to  the  shop  in  Custom-House  street,  before  which  our  "  company  "  was 
wont  to  sit  dreaming  over  narghilehs  supplied  by  a  neighboring  cafe, 
and  summoned  us  to  some  distant  corner  of  the  bazaars.     The  priest 


As  I  appeared  during  my  tramp  in  Asia  Minor. 
A  picture  taken  by  Abdul  Razac  Bundak,  bumboat-man  of  Beirut 


THE  ARAB  WORLD 


115 


in  his  confessional  was  never  entrusted  with  more  secrets  than  fell 
from -the  lips  of  the  scribes  amid  the  droning  of  Bundak,  the  interpre- 
ter. Had  those  men  of  letters  been  less  indolent,  the  volume  of  their 
business  might  well-nigh  have  doubled.  But  they  insisted  on  exercis- 
ing their  profession  after  the  laggard  manner  of  the  East,  and  ever  and 
anon  drifted  away  into  the  land  of  day-dreams  with  a  sentence  stranded 
on  their  lips.  The  palm  of  the  left  hand  was  the  writing  desk  to 
which  they  were  accustomed;  it  was  always  with  difficulty  that  I 
stirred  them  up  to  clear  a  space  on  their  Httered  stands.  They  and 
their  fathers  before  them  had  always  written  from  right  to  left;  they 
stared  in  amazement  when  I  began  in  the  left-hand  corner.  More 
than  one  burst  forth  in  vociferous  protest  at  this  unprecedented  use 
of  a  pen,  and  long  harangues  from  the  senior  member  of  our  firm  did 
not  always  convince  them  that  the  result  of  my  labor  was  more  than 
meaningless  scratches.  The  fees  of  this  new  profession  were  never 
princely.  The  scribes  themselves  received  no  more  than  a  bishleek 
for  a  letter,  and  must  supply  the  materials.  But  even  from  the  half  of 
our  share  I  added  something  each  day  to  the  scrap  iron  in  my  hand- 
kerchief. 

When  business  lagged  there  were  but  two  resources  left  to  Abdul 
—  to  eat  or  to  drink.  Let  his  narghileh  burn  out  before  a  summons 
came,  and  the  bumboat-man  rose  with  a  yawn  and  we  rambled  away 
through  the  intricate  windings  of  the  bazaars  to  some  tiny  tavern, 
tucked  away  in  an  utterly  unexpected  corner.  The  keepers  were  al- 
ways delighted  to  be  awakened  from  their  siestas  by  our  "  company." 
While  we  sat  on  a  log  or  an  upturned  basket  and  sipped  a  glass  of 
some  native  concoction  which  the  proprietor  placed  on  the  ground  — 
there  being  no  floor  —  at  our  feet,  Abdul  spun  long  tales  of  the 
faranchee  world.  They  were  bold  forays  into  the  field  of  fiction, 
most  of  them,  but  with  a  live  faranchee  to  serve  as  illustration,  the 
shopkeepers  were  never  critical  and  listened  open-mouthed,  after  the 
fashion  of  all  children  of  the  East  before  a  story  teller. 

There  was  really  no  reason  why  these  taverns  should  not  have  sup- 
plied all  our  wants  during  the  day,  for  the  "  free  lunch  "  system,  that 
has  long  been  credited  to  America,  is  indigenous  to  Beirut.  With 
every  drink  the  keeper  served  a  half-dozen  tiny  dishes  of  hazelnuts, 
radishes,  peas  in  the  pod,  cold  squares  of  boiled  potatoes,  and 
berries  and  vegetables  known  only  in  Syria.  But  Abdul  was  gifted 
with  an  inexhaustible  appetite,  and  at  least  once  after  every  transac- 
tion he  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  many  eating-shops  facing  the  busiest 


ii6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

streets  and  squares.  In  a  gloomy  grotto,  the  front  of  which  was  all 
door,  stood  two  long  tables  of  the  roughest  materials,  flanked  by 
rougher  benches  with  barely  space  enough  between  them  for  the 
passage  of  clients.  The  proprietor  rarely  stirred  from  behind  a  great 
block  of  brick  and  mortar  near  the  entrance,  over  which  simmered  a 
score  of  black  kettles.  I  read  the  bill  of  fare  by  raising  the  covers  of 
each  caldron  in  succession,  chose  a  dish  of  the  least  unfathomable 
mystery,  picked  up  a  discus-shaped  loaf  and  a  cruse  of  water  from 
the  bench  at  the  entrance,  and  retreated  to  the  rear.  Whatever  I  chose, 
it  was  almost  certain  to  contain  mutton.  The  sheep  appears  in  sundry 
and  strange  disguises  in  the  Mohammedan  world.  The  Arabian  cook, 
however,  sets  nothing  over  the  fire  until  he  has  cut  it  into  small  pieces, 
and  each  dinner  was  an  almost  unbroken  succession  of  stews  of  varying 
tastes  and  colors.  Each  order,  whether  of  meat  or  vegetables,  we  ate 
separately,  with  a  bread-cake. 

Abdul  rarely  concerned  himself  with  the  contents  of  the  kettles,  for 
his  unrivaled  favorite  was  a  dish  prepared  by  running  alternately  tiny 
cubes  of  liver  and  kidneys  on  a  spit  and  revolving  them  over  the 
glowing  coals.  I,  too,  should  have  ordered  this  delicacy  more  often 
had  not  Abdul,  with  his  incurable  "  Eengleesh,"  persisted  in  referring 
to  it  as  "  kittens."  I  parted  from  the  bumboat-man  each  evening ;  for, 
though  his  home  was  roomy  enough,  he  was  a  true  Mohammedan  and 
would  never  have  thought  of  introducing  even  his  business  partner 
into  the  same  building  with  his  wives.  Beds  were  good  and  rates  low 
in  the  native  inns.  Though  we  lived  right  royally  in  Beirut,  my  ex- 
penses were  rarely  twenty-five  cents  a  day. 

With  all  its  mud  and  squalor  there  was  something  marvelously 
pleasing  about  this  corner  of  the  Arab  world.  The  lazy  droning  of 
its  shopkeepers,  the  roll  of  the  incoming  sea,  the  twitter  of  birds 
that  spoke  of  summer  and  seemed  to  beHe  the  calendar,  above  all, 
the  picturesque  contrast  of  orange  trees  bending  under  the  ripening 
fruit  that  perfumed  the  soft  air,  with  the  snowdrifts  almost  within 
stone's  throw  on  the  peaks  above,  lent  to  the  spot  a  charm  unique. 
For  all  that,  I  should  not  have  remained  so  long  in  Beirut  by 
choice,  for  the  road  was  long  before  me,  and  to  each  day  I  had 
allotted  its  portion  of  the  journey.  The  traveler  in  the  East,  how- 
ever, must  learn  that  he  cannot  lay  plans  and  expect  to  hold  to 
them  as  at  home.  To  the  Oriental  it  is  entirely  immaterial  whether 
he  sets  out  to-day  or  to-morrow,  and  the  view  point  of  the  Frank  is  be- 
yond his  grasp.     Had  you  planned  a  departure  for  Monday  and  find 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  117 

that  some  petty  obstacle  makes  it  impossible  ?  "  Oh !  well,"  says  the 
native,  "  Tuesday  is  as  good  a  day  as  Monday.  Wait  until  to-mor- 
row." Does  Tuesday  bring  some  new  difficulty?  The  native  will  re- 
peat his  consoling  advice  just  as  jauntily  as  if  he  had  not  worn  it 
threadbare  the  day  before.  The  expression  "  wasting  time  "  has  no 
meaning  whatever  to  the  Oriental.  Twenty-four  hours  does  not  rep- 
resent to  him  one-half  the  value  of  one  of  his  miserable  copper  coins. 
A  certain  number  of  days  must  run  by  between  his  birth  and  death. 
What  matters  it  just  how  he  occupies  himself  during  that  period? 
He  is,  perhaps,  a  bit  happier  if  a  task  already  planned  must  be 
put  off,  for  the  postponement  reduces  the  sum-total  of  exertion  of 
his  allotted  span,  and  nothing  does  the  Oriental  hate  so  much  as 
exertion. 

The  officials  of  the  Porte,  imbued  with  this  philosophy  of  life, 
were  in  no  haste  to  examine  my  papers.  Not  until  my  third  visit  to 
the  consulate  did  the  air  of  consternation  with  which  the  American 
representative  met  me  at  the  door  inform  me  that  my  letter  had  been 
returned. 

"  What  the  devil  did  you  pass  this  note  as  a  passport  for  ?  "  shouted 
the  consul ;  "  Why,  man,  in  ten  years  I  never  heard  of  a  man  entering 
Turkish  territory  without  a  passport  —  except  one,  and  he  was  fined  a 
hundred  pounds." 

"  Tourist,  was  n't  he  ?  "  I  answered,  "  I  've  found  that  workingmen 
pass  more  easily." 

"  In  Europe,  perhaps,"  said  the  consul,  "  but  not  here.  Now  don't 
venture  into  the  interior  until  you  have  a  teskereh  —  a  local  passport 
—  unless  you  want  to  be  shipped  to  one  of  the  Sick  Man's  dungeons 
on  the  double  quick." 

Four  days  passed  before  this  document,  with  its  description  of  my 
features  in  the  unfathomable  orthography  of  the  Turk,  was  ready. 
Even  had  I  received  it  earlier,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  could 
have  set  out  for  Damascus  at  once.  Native  or  Frank,  not  a  resident  of 
Beirut  admitted  knowing  which  of  her  reeking  alleyways  led  to  the 
foothills  to  the  eastward.  Abdul  threw  up  his  hands  in  startled 
horror  when  I  broached  the  subject  of  my  intended  journey.  "  Im- 
possible !  "  he  shrieked,  "  There  is  not  road.  You  be  froze  in  the  snow 
before  the  Bedouins  cut  your  liver.  You  no  can  go.  Business  good. 
Damascus  no  good.     Ver'  col'  in  Damascus  now." 

It  cost  me  a  day's  earnings  one  afternoon  among  the  tavern  keepers 
to  revive  his  flagging  memory  before  he  recalled  that  there  zvas  a  road 


ii8       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

to  Damascus,  and  that  caravans  had  been  known  to  pass  over  it;  but 
even  in  such  good  spirits  he  persisted  with  great  vehemence  that  the 
journey  could  not  be  made  on  foot. 

The  bumboat-man  left  me  next  morning  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
city  and  a  bend  in  the  road  soon  hid  him  from  view.  For  an  hour  the 
highway  was  perfectly  level,  flanked  by  rich  gardens  and  orange 
groves,  and  thronged  with  dusky,  supple-limbed  men  and  women 
garbed  in  flowing  sheets.  Soon  all  this  changed.  The  road  wound 
upward,  the  delicate  orange  tree  gave  place  to  the  sturdy  olive,  the 
fertile  gardens  to  haggard  hillsides,  the  gay  throng  to  an  occasional 
Arab,  grim  and  austere  of  visage,  leading  or  riding  a  swaying  camel. 
Over  the  dull  solitude  fell  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  rising  wind 
sighing  mournfully  through  the  jagged  gullies  and  stocky  trees.  The 
summer  breeze  of  the  sea  level  turned  chilly  and  I  found  it  worth 
while  to  seek  the  sunny  side  of  a  boulder  before  broaching  the  lunch 
in  my  knapsack.  Nearer  the  summit  of  the  first  range  the  aspect  was 
less  dreary.  The  cedar  forests  began  and  broke  the  monotony  of  the 
ragged  landscape.  Here  and  there  a  group  of  peasants  was  grubbing 
on  the  wayside  slopes.  To  the  north  or  south  a  flat-roofed  village 
clung  to  a  mountain  flank. 

How  strange  and  foreign  seemed  everything  about  me !  The  imple- 
ments of  the  peasants,  the  food  in  my  knapsack,  the  very  tobacco  in 
my  pipe,  every  detail  of  custom  and  costume  seemed  but  to  widen  the 
vast  gulf  between  this  and  my  accustomed  world.  If  I  addressed  a 
fellow-wayfarer,  he  answered  back  an  incomprehensible  jumble  of 
words,  wound  the  folds  of  his  unfamiliar  garments  about  him,  and  hur- 
ried on.  If  I  caught  sight  of  a  village  clock,  its  hands  pointed  to 
six  when  the  hour  was  midday.  Even  the  familiar  name  of  the  famous 
city  to  which  I  was  bound  was  meaningless  to  the  natives,  for  they 
called  it  "  Shaam.'^ 

My  pronunciation  of  the  word  was  at  fault,  no  doubt,  for  though 
I  stood  long  at  a  fork  in  the  route  in  the  early  afternoon  shouting 
"  Shaam  "  at  each  passer-by,  I  took  the  wrong  branch.  Some  hours 
I  had  tramped  along  a  rapidly  deteriorating  highway  before  a  suspi- 
cion of  this  mistake  assailed  me.  Even  then,  with  no  means  to  verify 
it,  I  kept  on.  At  last  the  route  emerged  from  a  cutting,  and  the 
shimmering  sea  almost  at  my  feet  showed  that  I  was  marching  due 
southward.  Two  peasants  appeared  above  a  rise  of  ground  beyond. 
As  they  drew  near,  I  pointed  off  down  the  road  and  shouted  "  Shaam  ?  " 
The  pair  halted,  wonderingly,  in  the  center  of  the  highway  some  dis- 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  119 

tance  from  me.  "  Shaam !  Shaam !  Shaam !  "  I  repeated,  striving 
to  give  the  word  an  accentuation  that  would  suggest  the  interrogation 
point  that  went  with  it.  The  peasants  stared  open-mouthed,  drew 
back  several  paces,  and  peered  down  the  road  and  back  at  me  a  dozen 
times,  as  if  undecided  whether  I  was  calling  their  attention  to  some 
phenomenon  of  nature  or  attempting  to  distract  their  attention  long 
enough  to  pick  their  pockets.  Then  a  slow,  half-hearted  smile  broke 
out  on  the  features  of  the  quicker  witted.  He  stood  first  on  one  leg, 
then  on  the  other,  squinted  along  the  highway  once  more,  and  began  to 
repeat  after  me,  "  Shaam  1     Shaam !     Shaam." 

"  Aywa,  Shaam !  "  I  cried. 
He  turned  to  his  companion.  The  parley  that  ensued  was  long 
enough  to  have  settled  all  differences  of  opinion  in  politics,  religion, 
and  the  rotation  of  crops.  Then  both  began  to  shake  their  heads  so 
vigorously  that  the  muscles  of  their  necks  stood  out  like  steel  hawsers. 
Two  broad  grins  that  were  meant  to  be  reassuring  distorted  their 
leathery  visages.  They  stretched  out  their  arms  to  the  southward 
and  burst  forth  in  unharmonious  duet :  "  La !  la !  la !  la !  la !  Shaam ! 
la !  la !  la !  la !  la !  "  The  Arab  says  '*  la  "  when  he  means  "  no."  I 
turned  about  and  hurried  back  the  way  I  had  come. 

Dusk  was  falling  when  I  traversed  for  the  second  time  a  two-row 
village  facing  the  highway.  As  I  expected,  there  was  not  a  building 
in  any  way  resembling  an  inn.  For  the  Arab,  even  of  the  twentieth 
century,  considers  it  a  sin  that  "  the  stranger  within  his  gates  "  shall 
be  obliged  to  put  up  at  a  public  house.  I  had  already  seen  enough  of 
the  Syrian,  however,  to  know  the  chief  weakness  of  his  character  — 
insatiable  curiosity.  One  thing  he  cannot  do  is  mind  his  own  business. 
Is  there  a  trade  going  on,  a  debt  being  paid,  a  quarrel  raging?  The 
vociferations  of  bargaining,  the  jingle  of  money,  the  angry  shrieks 
drive  from  his  head  every  thought  of  his  own  affairs,  and  he  hastens 
to  join  the  increasing  throng  around  the  parties  interested,  to  offer 
his  advice  and  bellow  his  criticisms.  I  sat  down  on  a  boulder  at  the 
end  of  the  village. 

In  three  minutes  a  small  crowd  had  collected.  In  ten,  half  the 
population  was  swarming  around  me  and  roaring  at  my  vain  attempt 
to  address  them,  as  at  some  entertainment  specially  arranged  for 
their  enjoyment.  A  good  half -hour  of  incessant  chattering  ensued  be- 
fore one  of  the  band  motioned  to  me  to  follow  him,  and  turned  back 
into  the  village.  The  multitude  surged  closely  around  me,  examining 
minutely  every  article  of  my  apparel  that  was  visible,  grinning,  smirk- 


120       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ing,  running  from  one  side  to  the  other,  lest  they  lose  some  point  in 
the  make-up  of  so  strange  a  creature,  and  babbling  the  while  like  an 
army  of  apes. 

The  leader  turned  off  the  highway  towards  the  largest  building  in 
the   village.     Ten   yards    from    the    door   he    halted,    the   multitude 
formed  a  semicircle,  leaving  me  in  the  center  like  the  chief  buffoon 
in  a  comic  opera  ensemble,  and  one  and  all  began  to  bellow  at  the 
top  of  his   lungs.     A  girl  of   some   sixteen  years   appeared  on   the  - 
threshold.     "  Taala  hena !  "  (come  here)  roared  the  chorus.     The  girl  li 
ran  down  the  steps.     A  roar  as  of  an  angry  sea  burst  forth  as  every  ^ 
member  of  the  company  stretched  out  an  arm  towards  me.     Plainly, 
each  was  determined  that  he,  and  not  his  neighbor,  should  have  the 
distinction  of  introducing  this  novel  being. 

"  Sprechen  Sie  Deutsch?"  shrieked  the  girl  in  my  ear, 

"  Ja  wohl,"  I  answered. 

The  rabble  fell  utterly  silent  at  the  first  word,  and  I  asked  to  be 
directed  to  an  inn. 

"  There  is  no  hotel  in  our  city  of  Bhamdoon,"  replied  the  girl,  with 
flashing  eyes ;  "  We  should  be  insulted.  In  this  house,  with  my 
family,  lives  a  German  missionary  lady.     You  must  stop  here.'* 

She  led  the  way  to  the  door.  The  missionary  met  me  on  the  steps 
with  a  cry  of  delight,  which  she  hastened  to  excuse  on  the  ground  that 
she  had  not  seen  a  European  in  many  months. 

"What  would  supper  and  lodging  cost  me  here?"  I  demanded. 
The  habit  of  making  such  an  inquiry  had  become  almost  an  instinct 
among  the  grasping  innkeepers  of  Europe.  Luckily,  the  German  lady 
was  hard  of  hearing.  The  girl  gave  me  a  quick  glance,  half  scornful, 
half  astonished,  which  reminded  me  that  such  a  question  is  an  insult 
in  the  land  of  the  Arabs. 

"  The  lady  is  busy,  now,"  said  the  girl,  "  come  and  visit  my  family." 

She  led  the  way  along  a  hall  and  threw  open  a  door.  I  pulled  off 
my  cap. 

"  Keep  it  on,"  said  my  guide,  "  and  leave  your  shoes  there." 

She  stepped  out  of  her  own  loose  slippers  and  into  the  room.  It 
was  square  and  low,  the  stone  floor  half  covered  with  mats  and  cush- 
ions; in  the  center  glowed  a  small,  sheet-iron  stove,  and  around  three 
of  the  walls  ran  a  divan.  Two  men,  two  women,  and  several  children 
were  seated  in  a  semicircle  on  the  floor,  their  legs  folded  in  front  of 
them.  They  rose  without  a  word  as  I  entered.  The  girl  placed  a 
cushion  for  me  on  the  floor.    The  family  sat  down  again,  carefully  and 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  121 

leisurely  adjusted  their  legs,  and  then  one  and  all,  in  regular  succes- 
sion, according  to  age,  cried  "  lailtak  saeedee  "  (good  evening). 

In  the  center  of  the  group  sat  three  large  bowls,  one  of  lentils 
and  another  of  chopped-up  potatoes  in  oil.  The  third  contained  a 
delicacy  made  of  sour  milk  —  a  cross  between  a  soup  and  a  pudding, 
that  is  a  great  favorite  among  the  Arabs.  On  the  floor,  beside  each 
member  of  the  family,  lay  several  sheets  of  bread,  half  a  yard  in 
diameter  and  as  thin  as  cardboard,  each  heap  bearing  a  close  re- 
semblance to  the  famous  "  stack  of  wheats  "  of  our  own  land.  The 
head  of  the  house  pushed  the  bowls  toward  me,  ordered  a  stack  of 
bread  to  be  placed  beside  my  cushion,  and  motioned  to  me  to  eat.  I 
stared  helplessly  at  the  bowls,  for  there  was  neither  knife,  fork,  nor 
spoon  in  sight.  The  girl,  however,  knowing  the  ways  of  faranchees 
from  years  in  a  mission-school  in  Beirut,  explained  my  perplexity  to 
her  father.  He  cast  upon  me  such  a  look  as  an  American  society 
leader  might  bestow  upon  an  Australian  Bushman  at  her  table,  begged 
my  pardon,  through  his  daughter,  for  overriding  the  dictates  of 
etiquette  by  partaking  of  a  morsel  before  his  guest  had  begun,  tore  a 
few  inches  from  a  bread-sheet,  and  folding  it  between  his  fingers, 
picked  up  a  pinch  of  lentils  and  ate.     I  lost  no  time  in  falling  to. 

A  wonderful  invention  is  this  gkebis  or  Arab  bread.  If  one  pur- 
chases food  in  a  native  bazaar,  it  is  wrapped  in  a  bread-sheet  —  and  a 
very  serviceable  wrapper  it  is,  for  it  requires  a  good  grip  and  a  fair 
pair  of  biceps  to  tear  it.  A  bread-sheet  takes  the  place  of  many 
table  utensils:  arab  matrons,  'tis  said,  never  complain  of  their  dish- 
washing tasks.  It  makes  a  splendid  cover  for  pots  and  pans,  it  does 
well  as  a  waiter's  tray.  Never  have  I  seen  it  used  to  cover  roofs,  nor 
as  shaving  paper  —  but  the  Oriental  is  noted  for  his  inability  to  make 
the  most  of  his  opportunities.  In  its  primary  mission  —  as  an  article 
of  food  —  however,  gkebis  is  not  an  unqualified  success.  In  taste  it 
is  not  always  unsavory,  but  ten  minutes  chewing  makes  far  less  im- 
pression on  it  than  on  a  rubber  mat.  It  is  rumored,  too,  that  more 
than  one  Frank  has  lost  his  appetite  in  striving  to  pronounce  its 
guttural  Arabic  name.  Very  often  —  as  on  this  occasion  —  when 
weeks  have  passed  since  its  baking,  the  gkebis  grows  brittle  and  is 
inclined  to  break  when  used  as  a  spoon.  My  host  picked  up  one  of 
my  sheets,  held  it  against  the  glowing  stove  with  the  flat  of  his  hand, 
and  returned  it.  It  was  as  pliable  as  cloth  and  much  more  toothsome 
than  before. 

The   younger    man    rolled    cigarettes    for   the    three    of    us.     We 


122       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

had  settled  back  to  chat  —  through  interpreter  —  when  there  came  a 
tap  at  the  door  and  a  few  words  in  Arabic  that  caused  the  family 
to  jump  hurriedly  to  their  feet.  An  awe-struck  whisper  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth ;  '*  sheik !  sheik !  "  The  children  were  whisked  into 
one  comer,  the  door  flung  open,  and  there  entered  a  diminutive  man  of 
about  sixty.  Long,  flowing  robes  enveloped  his  form,  a  turban-wound 
fez  perched  almost  jauntily  on  his  head,  and  his  feet  were  bare,  for 
he  had  dropped  his  slippers  at  the  door.  His  face,  above  all,  attracted 
attention.  Deep-wrinkled,  with  a  long  scar  across  one  cheek,  a  vis- 
age browned  and  weather-beaten  by  the  wild  storms  that  sometimes 
rage  over  the  Lebanon,  there  was  about  it  an  expression  of  frank- 
ness; yet  from  his  eyes  there  flashed  shrewd,  worldly-wise  glances 
that  stamped  him  as  a  man  vastly  different  from  his  simple  fellow- 
townsmen. 

The  sheik  greeted  the  head  of  the  family,  took  a  seat  near  me  on 
the  divan,  salaamed  solemnly  to  each  person  present,  acknowledged  the 
greetings  they  returned,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  bade  them  be 
seated.  The  newcomer  had,  quite  plainly,  been  attracted  to  the  house 
by  the  rumor  that  a  faranchee  was  visiting  the  family.  After  a  few 
preliminary  remarks,  the  drift  of  which  I  could  follow  from  his  ex- 
pressive gestures  and  the  few  words  I  had  picked  up,  he  turned  the 
conversation,  with  the  ease  of  a  diplomat,  to  the  subject  of  their 
strange  guest.  My  hosts  needed  no  urging.  For  a  time  the  sheik  lis- 
tened to  their  explanations  and  suppositions  with  an  unruffled  mien, 
puffing  the  while  at  a  cigarette  with  as  blase  an  air  as  if  faranchees 
were  the  most  ordinary  beings  to  him. 

As  a  climax  to  his  tale  the  head  of  the  house  remarked  that  I  was 
bound  to  "  Shaam  "  on  foot.  The  ending  was  fully  as  effective  as 
he  could  have  hoped.  The  sheik  fairly  bounded  into  the  air,  threw 
his  cigarette  at  the  open  stove,  and  burst  forth  into  an  excited  tirade. 
The  girl  interpreted.  It  was  the  old  story  of  "  impossible,"  ''  can't  be 
done,"  and  the  rest;  but  a  new  element  was  introduced  into  a  thread- 
bare prediction;  for  the  sheik  declared  that,  as  village  magistrate,  he 
would  not  permit  me  to  continue  in  such  a  foolhardy  undertaking.  * 
How  many  weapons  did  I  carry?  None?  What?  No  weapon? 
Travel  to  far-off  Damascus  without  being  armed?  Why,  his  own 
villagers  never  ventured  along  the  highway  to  the  nearest  towns 
without  their  guns!  He  would  not  hear  of  it;  and  he  was  still  dis- 
claiming as  only  an  excited  Oriental  can,  when  the  missionary  came 
to  invite  me  to  a  second  supper. 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  123 

I  took  leave  of  my  host  early  next  morning,  swung  my  knapsack 
over  my  shoulder,  and  limped  down  to  the  road.  But  Bhamdoon  was 
not  yet  done  with  me.  In  the  center  of  the  highway,  in  front  of  the 
little  shop  of  which  he  was  proprietor,  stood  the  sheik  and  several  fel- 
low townsmen.  With  great  politeness,  he  invited  me  to  step  inside. 
My  feet  were  still  swollen  and  blistered  from  the  long  tramp  of  the 
day  before,  for  the  cloth  slippers  of  Port  Said  offered  no  more  pro- 
tection from  the  sharp  stones  of  the  highway  than  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  I  accepted  the  invitation.  The  village  head  placed  a  stool  for 
me  in  the  front  of  the  shop,  in  full  sight  from  up  or  down  the  route. 
It  soon  became  evident  that  I  was  on  exhibition  as  a  freak  of  humanity, 
for  the  sheik  pointed  me  out  with  great  delight  to  every  passer-by. 
Apparently,  too,  he  had  chosen  this  opportune  moment  to  collect 
some  village  tax.  On  the  floor  beside  me  stood  an  earthenware  pot, 
and  the  sheik,  as  soon  as  his  exhibit  had  been  viewed  from  all  sides, 
called  upon  each  newcomer  to  drop  into  it  a  bishleek  (ten  cents). 
Like  true  Orientals,  they  gave  smaller  pieces,  some  half  bishleeks, 
some  one  or  two  metleeks ;  but  not  a  man  passed  without  contributing 
his  mite,  for  the  command  of  the  sheik  of  a  Syrian  village  is  law  to  all 
its  inhabitants. 

Some  time  I  had  served  as  a  bait  for  tax-dodgers  when  a  villager 
I  had  not  yet  seen  put  in  an  appearance,  and  addressed  me  in  fluent 
English.  He  had  gathered  a  Syrian  fortune  in  Maine  and  returned, 
years  before,  to  the  rugged  slopes  of  his  native  Lebanon.  He  insisted 
that  I  visit  his  house  nearby  and,  once  there,  fell  to  tucking  bread- 
sheets,  black  olives,  raisins,  and  pieces  of  sugar-cane  into  my  knap- 
sack, shouting  incessantly  at  the  same  time  of  his  undying,  affection 
for  America  and  things  American.  Out  of  mere  pride  for  his  bleak 
country,  he  took  care,  on  the  way  back  to  the  shop,  to  point  out  a 
narrow  path  that  wound  up  the  steep  slope  of  a  neighboring  range. 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  leads  to  the  Damascus  road.  But  no  man  can 
journey  to  Damascus  on  foot." 

The  earthenware  pot  was  almost  full  when  I  took  my  seat  again  on 
the  stool.     I  turned  to  my  new  acquaintance. 

"What  special  taxes  is  the  sheik  gathering  this  morning?"  I  de- 
manded. 

"  Eh !  What  ?  "  cried  the  erstwhile  New  Englander,  following  the 
indication  of  my  finger,  "  The  pot?  Why,  don't  you  know  what  that 's 
for?" 

"  No,"  I  answered. 


124       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Why,  that  is  a  collection  the  sheik  is  taking  up  to  buy  you  a  ticket 
to  Damascus  on  the  railroad." 

I  picked  up  my  knapsack  from  the  floor  and  stepped  into  the  high- 
way. The  sheik  and  several  bystanders  threw  themselves  upon  me 
with  cries  of  dismay.  It  was  no  use  attempting  to  escape  from  a 
dozen  horny  hands.  I  permitted  myself  to  be  led  back  to  the  stool 
and  sat  down  with  the  knapsack  across  my  knees.  The  sheik  addressed 
me  in  soothing  tones,  pointing  at  the  pot  with  every  third  word.  The 
others  resumed  their  seats  on  the  floor,  rolled  new  cigarettes,  and  fell 
quiet  once  more. '  With  one  leap  I  sprang  from  the  stool  into  the 
street  and  set  off  at  top  speed  down  the  highway,  a  screaming,  howl- 
ing, ever-increasing  but  ever  more  distant  throng  at  my  heels.  A 
half-hour  later  I  gained  the  summit  of  the  neighboring  range  and  slid 
down  the  opposite  slope  onto  the  highway  to  Damascus. 

¥oT  miles  the  road  ascended  sharply,  elbowing  its  way  through 
larrow  gorges,  or  crawling  along  the  face  of  a  mountain  where  its 
edge  was  a  yawning  precipice.  The  giant  cedars  of  the  first  slopes 
had  given  way  to  clumps  of  stunted  dwarfs,  cowering  in  deep-cut 
ravines  behind  protecting  shoulders  of  the  range.  Few  were  the 
villages,  and  being  low  and  flat  and  built  of  the  same  calcareous 
rock  as  the  mountains,  they  escaped  the  eye  until  one  was  almost 
upon  them.  In  every  hamlet  one  or  more  of  the  householders  marched 
back  and  forth  on  the  top  of  his  dwelling,  dragging  after  him  a 
great  stone  roller  and  chanting  a  mournful  dirge  that  seemed  to 
cheer  him  on  in  his  labor.  At  first  sight  these  flat  roofs  seem  to 
be  of  heavy  blocks  of  stone.  In  reality  they  are  made  of  branches 
and  bushes,  plastered  over  with  mud,  and,  were  the  rolling  neglected 
for  a  fortnight  in  this  rainy  season,  they  would  soon  sag  and  fall 
in  of  their  own  weight.  More  frequent  than  the  villages  were  the 
ruins  of  a  more  pretentious  generation,  standing  bleak  and  drear 
on  commanding  hillsides  and  adding  to  the  haggard  desolation.  At 
long  intervals  appeared  a  line  of  camels,  plodding  westward  with  a 
tread  of  formal  dignity,  a  company  of  villagers  on  horseback,  or  a 
straggling  band  of  evil-eyed  Bedouins  astride  lean  asses.  Never  a 
human  being  alone,  never  a  man  on  foot,  and  never  a  traveler  without 
a  long  gun  slung  across  his  shoulders.  The  villagers  stared  at  me 
open-mouthed,  the  camel  drivers  leered  sarcastically,  the  scowling 
Bedouins  halted  to  watch  my  retreating  form  as  if  undecided  whether 
I  was  worth  the  robbing. 


THE  ARAB  WORLD 


125 


The  snow,  which,  seen  from  Beirut,  seemed  to  cover  the  entire  sum- 
mit of  the  range  in  impenetrable  drifts,  lay  in  isolated  patches  along 
the  way.  Here  was  no  such  Arctic  realm  as  Abdul  had  pictured.  The 
air  was  crisp  at  noonday ;  by  night,  no  doubt,  it  would  have  been  bit- 
ter cold  —  mere  autumn  weather  to  us  of  northern  clime.  But  it  was 
easy  to  understand  why  those  accustomed  to  the  perpetual  summer  of 
the  coast  had  fancied  the  passage  an  unprecedented  hardship. 

At  the  summit,  the  snow  lay  deeper.  Far  below  stretched  a  rec- 
tangular tableland,  a  fertile  plain  dotted  with  clusters  of  dwellings, 
and  shut  in  on  every  side  by  mountain  ranges.  Across  it,  like  a  white 
ribbon,  lay  the  Damascus  highway,  growing  smaller  and  smaller,  to  be 
lost  in  tortuous  windings  in  the  foothills  beyond. 

I  reached  the  plain  by  evening  and  halted  in  a  hamlet  not  far  from 
the  city  of  Zakleh.  Among  the  heavy-handed  peasants  who  sur- 
rounded me  was  one  who  had  labored  long  enough  in  Italy  to  have 
picked  up  a  smattering  of  her  language.  We  of  the  West  might  well 
take  lessons  in  hospitality  from  the  Arab.  Imagine  a  Syrian  arriv- 
ing at  night  and  on  foot  in,  let  us  say,  a  village  of  rural  Kansas;  a 
Syrian  in  native  costume  who,  in  answer  to  the  questions  put  to  him 
could  do  no  more  than  point  to  the  road  across  the  prairie  and  gur- 
gle some  such  word  as  "  Chikak !  Cheekako  1 "  each  time  with  a 
different  accent.  An  Arabic-speaking  villager,  arriving  on  the  scene, 
would,  possibly,  pause  to  inquire  the  stranger's  wants.  He  might 
direct  him  to  an  inn,  but  he  would  not  consider  it  his  duty  to  put  him- 
self to  the  annoyance  of  seeing  that  he  found  it.  Such  was  not  the 
Italian-speaking  Arab's  notion  of  the  proper  treatment  of  strangers. 
He  took  personal  charge  of  me  at  once,  led  the  way  to  the  caravan- 
serai, acted  as  interpreter,  quarreled  with  the  proprietor  when  he  tried 
to  overcharge  me,  and  to  save  me  a  dismal  evening  surrounded  by  a 
jabbering  multitude,  remained  until  late  at  night. 

I  took  leave  of  him  at  the  door  of  a  stone  stable  —  the  only  lodging 
which  the  hamlet  offered.  The  few  camel  drivers  already  gathered 
there  were  well  supplied  with  bags  and  blankets  which  they  made  no 
oflfer  to  share  with  me.  When  I  had  watched  them  chasing  through 
the  mysteries  and  hiding-places  of  their  manifold  garments  the  nimble 
creatures  with  which  they  were  infected,  I  lay  down  on  the  cobble- 
stone floor  without  a  sigh  of  regret.  Long  before  morning,  however, 
I  should  gladly  have  accepted  the  most  flea-bitten  covering.  The 
kodak  that  served  me  as  a  pillow  rattled  hour  after  hour  with  my  sliiv- 


126       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ering.  I  shivered  until  my  neck  and  arms  ached  with  the  exertion  of 
vainly  trying  to  hold  myself  still,  and  never  before  had  1  realized  the 
astonishing  length  of  a  December  night. 

I  put  off  vi^ith  the  first  suspicion  of  dawn  and  was  already  halfway 
across  the  plain  when  the  sun  climbed  the  mountain  rampart  to  the 
eastward.  To  the  natives  the  morning  was  bitter  cold.  Bands  of 
laborers  on  their  way  to  the  fields  grinned  at  me  sympathetically  and 
passed  their  hands  over  the  scarfs  wound  round  and  round  their  necks 
and  heads.  They  were  certain  that,  with  face  and  ears  unprotected,  I 
was  suffering  acutely;  yet  each  and  all  of  them,  in  low  slippers,  was 
bare  of  leg  halfway  to  the  knee. 

Where  the  plain  ended  the  highway  wound  upward  through  a  nar- 
row, rocky  defile.  Marauding  Bedouins  could  not  have  chosen  a 
better  spot  to  lie  in  wait  for  their  victims.  I  started  in  alarm  when 
a  shout  rang  out  at  the  summit  of  the  pass.  The  summons  came  from 
no  highwayman,  however.  Before  a  ruined  hut  on  the  hill  above, 
stood  a  man  in  khaki  uniform,  the  reins  of  a  saddle  horse  that  grazed 
at  his  feet  over  one  arm.  "  Teskereh !  "  he  bawled.  I  climbed  the 
hillside  and  handed  over  my  Turkish  passport.  The  officer  grew 
friendly  at  once,  tethered  his  horse,  and  invited  me  into  the  hut.  Its 
only  furnishings  were  a  mat-covered  bench  that  served  the  guardian 
as  a  bed,  and  a  pan  of  coals.  I  drew  out  a  few  coins  and  ate  an  imagi- 
nary breakfast.  The  officer  could  not  —  or  would  not  —  understand 
my  pantomime.  He  motioned  me  to  a  seat,  offered  a  cigarette,  and 
poured  out  a  cup  of  muddy  coffee  from  a  pot  over  the  coals.  But  food 
he  would  not  bring  forth. 

While  we  sat  grinning  speechlessly  at  each  other,  the  tinkle  of  a 
bell  sounded  up  the  pass.  The  officer  sprang  to  his  feet  and  hurried 
down  the  hill.  Not  once  before  had  I  been  called  upon  to  produce 
the  teskereh  which  the  American  consul  had  assured  me  was  indis- 
pensable, and  a  suspicion  that  one-half  the  amount  it  had  cost  would 
have  sufficed  to  blind  the  officers  of  the  Porte  to  its  absence  grew  to 
conviction  at  this  Thermopylae  of  the  Lebanon.  A  war  of  words 
sounded  from  the  highway.  I  stepped  to  the  door.  The  soldier  and 
the  driver  of  an  overburdened  ass  were  screaming  at  each  other  in 
the  center  of  the  route.  When  the  quarrel  had  reached  its  height, 
the  traveler  dropped  something  into  the  guardsman's  hand  and  con- 
tinued on  his  way.  The  officer  climbed  the  hill,  smiling  broadly, 
**  Teskereh,  ma  feesh !  "  he  cried,  "  Etnane  bishleek !  "  (he  had  no  tesk- 
ereh !  Two  bishleeks)  ;  and  he  dropped  the  coins  with  a  rattle  into  a 


The  lonely,   Bedouin-infected   road  over  the   Lebanon.      "Few  corners 

of  the  globe  offer  more  utter  solitude  than 

Syria  and  Palestine" 


The  Palestine  beast  of  burden  loaded  with  stone 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  127 

stocking-like  purse  that  was  by  no  means  empty.  I  drew  him  out  of 
the  hut  and,  once  in  the  sunshine,  opened  my  kodak.  He  gave  one  wild 
shriek  and  stumbled  over  himself  in  his  haste  to  regain  the  hovel ;  nor 
could  any  amount  of  wheedling  induce  him  to  venture  forth  again 
until  I  had  closed  the  apparatus.  Accepting  a  bribe  was  a  mere  matter 
of  business;  to  have  his  picture  taken  was  a  sure  way  to  future  per- 
dition. 

Beyond  the  pass  stretched  mile  after  mile  of  desolation  absolute, 
hills  upon  hills  sank  down  behind  each  other,  barren  and  drear,  except 
for  an  occasional  olive  tree,  a  sturdy  form  of  vegetation  that,  in  itself, 
added  to  the  general  loneliness.  Few  corners  of  the  globe  can  equal 
in  fearful  stretches  of  utter  solitude  this  land  so  aptly  termed,  in 
Biblical  phraseology,  "  the  waste  places  of  the  earth."  All  through  the 
day  I  tramped  on,  with  never  a  sight  nor  sound  of  an  animate  object, 
save  once  in  mid-afternoon,  when  I  broke  my  fast  on  bread-sheets  and 
cakes  of  ground  sugar-cane  at  an  isolated  shop.  Darkness  fell  over 
the  same  haggard  wilderness.  The  wind,  howling  across  the  solitary 
waste,  filled  my  ears.  On  this  blackest  of  nights  I  could  not  have 
made  out  a  ghost  a  yard  away,  and  the  unknown  highway  led  me  into 
many  a  pitfall.  Long  hours  after  sunset  I  was  plodding  blindly  on, 
my  cloth  slippers  making  not  a  sound,  when  I  ran  squarely  into  the 
arms  of  some  species  of  human  whose  native  footwear  had  rendered 
his  approach  as  noiseless  as  my  own.  Three  startled  male  voices  rang 
out  in  guttural  shrieks  of  "  Allah  " —  Arabic  invocations,  evidently, 
against  evil  spirits  —  as  the  trio  sprang  back  in  terror. 

Before  I  could  pass  on,  one  of  them  —  plainly  a  materialist  — 
struck  a  match.  The  howling  wind  blew  it  out  instantly,  but  in  that 
brief  flicker  I  caught  sight  of  three  ugly  faces  under  a  headdress  that 
belongs  to  the  roving  Bedouin.  With  a  simultaneous  scream  of 
"  Faranchee !  "  the  nomads  flung  themselves  upon  the  particular  corner 
of  the  darkness  where  the  match  had  shown  me  standing.  The  motive 
of  their  attack,  perhaps,  was  Oriental  hospitality.  In  the  excitement 
of  the  moment  I  credited  them  with  a  desire  to  increase  their  capital 
in  the  kingdom  of  black-eyed  houris,  and  evacuated  the  spot  by  a  bit 
of  side  stepping  that  would  have  won  me  fame  in  the  roped  arena.  In 
my  haste  to  execute  the  mancEUvre,  however,  I  fell  off  the  highway, 
and  the  rattling  of  stones  under  my  feet  precipitated  another  charge. 
A  dozen  times  during  the  ensuing  game  of  hide-and-seek  I  felt  the 
breath  of  one  of  the  flea-bitten  rascals  in  my  face.  The  Arabic  rules 
of  the  game,  fortunately,  required  the  players  to  keep  up  a  continual 


128     A  Vagabond  journey  around  the  world 

howling  for  mutual  encouragement,  while  I  moved  silently,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  West.  Aided  by  this  unfair  advantage,  I  eluded  their 
welcoming  embraces  until  they  stopped  for  a  consultation,  and,  creep- 
ing noiselessly  on  hands  and  knees,  I  lay  hold  on  the  highway  and 
sped  silently  away,  by  no  means  certain  whether  1  was  headed  towards 
Damascus  or  the  coast. 

An  hour  later  the  howling  of  dogs  heralded  my  approach  to  some 
hamlet.  Once  in  it,  I  halted  to  listen  for  sounds  of  human  life.  Its 
inhabitants,  apparently,  were  lost  in  slumber,  for  what  Syrian  could 
be  awake  and  silent?  The  lights  that  shone  from  every  hovel  proved 
nothing,  for  the  Arab  nations  are  unaccountably  fearful  of  the  evil 
spirits  that  lurk  in  the  darkness.  I  beat  off  the  snapping  curs  and 
started  on  again.  Suddenly  muffled  peals  of  laughter  and  the  excited 
voices  of  male  and  female  sounded  from  the  depths  of  a  building  be- 
fore me.  I  hurried  towards  it  and  knocked  loudly  on  the  iron- 
studded  door.  The  festivities  ceased  as  suddenly  as  if  I  had  touched 
an  electric  button  controlling  them.  For  several  moments  the  silence 
was  absolute.  Then  there  came  the  slapping  of  slippered  feet  along 
the  passageway  inside,  and  a  woman's  voice  called  out  to  me.  I  sum- 
moned up  my  limited  Arabic :  "  M'abaraf  shee  arabee !  Faranchee ! 
Fee  wahed  locanda?  Bnam!"  (I  don't  speak  Arabic!  Foreigner! 
Is  there  an  inn?  Sleep!).  Without  a  word  the  unknown  lady  slapped 
back  along  the  corridor.  A  good  five  minutes  elapsed.  I  knocked  once 
more  and  again  there  came  the  patter  of  feet.  This  time  a  man's 
gruff  voice  greeted  me.  I  repeated  my  Arabic  vocabulary.  There 
sounded  the  sliding  of  innumerable  bolts  and  bars,  the  massive  door 
opened  ever  so  slightly,  and  the  muzzle  of  a  matchlock  was  thrust 
out  into  my  face. 

The  eyes  that  appeared  above  it  were  evidently  satisfied  with  their 
inspection.  The  door  was  thrown  wide  open,  and  a  very  Hercules  of 
a  native,  with  a  mustache  that  would  have  put  the  Kaiser  to  shame, 
stepped  out,  holding  his  clumsy  gun  ready  for  instant  use.  I  could 
not  but  laugh  at  his  frightened  aspect.  He  smiled  sheepishly  and,  re- 
treating into  the  house,  returned  in  a  moment  unarmed,  and  carrying 
a  lamp  and  a  rush  mat.  At  one  end  of  the  building  he  pushed  open  a 
door  that  hung  by  one  hinge  and  lighted  me  into  a  room  with  earth 
floor  and  one  window,  from  which  five  of  the  six  panes  were  missing. 
A  heap  of  dried  branches  at  one  end  stamped  it  as  a  wood  shed. 

A  gaunt  cur  wandered  in  at  our  heels.  The  native  drove  him  off, 
spread  the  mat  on  the  ground  and  brought  from  the  house  a  pan  of 


THE  ARAB  WORLD  129 

live  coals.  I  called  for  food.  When  he  returned  with  several  bread- 
sheets,  I  drew  out  my  handkerchief  and  began  to  untie  it.  My  host 
shook  his  head  fiercely,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  pointed  sev- 
eral times  at  the  ceiling,  implying,  evidently,  that  he  was  a  convert  of 
the  Catholic  missionaries  and  that  the  Allah  of  the  Christians  would 
pay  my  bill. 

Barely  had  the  native  disappeared  when  the  dog  poked  his  ugly 
head  through  the  half-open  door  and  snarled  viciously  at  me.  He  was 
a  wolfish  animal  of  the  yellow  mongrel  variety  so  common  in  Syria, 
and  in  his  eye  gleamed  a  rascality  that  gave  him  a  startling  resemblance 
to  the  thieving  nomads  that  infect  that  drear  land.  I  drove  him  off 
and  made  the  door  fast,  built  a  roaring  fire  of  twigs,  and  rolling  up 
in  the  mat,  lay  down  beside  the  blaze.  I  awoke  from  a  half -conscious 
nap  to  find  that  irrepressible  cur  sniffing  at  me  and  displaying  his  ugly 
fangs  within  six  inches  of  my  face.  A  dozen  times  I  fastened  the 
door  against  him  in  vain.  Had  he  merely  bayed  the  moon  all  night 
it  would  have  mattered  little,  for  with  a  fire  to  tend  I  had  small  chance 
to  sleep ;  but  his  silent  skulking  and  muffled  snarls  kept  me  wide-eyed 
with  apprehension  until  the  grey  of  dawn  peeped  in  at  the  ragged 
window. 

The  village  was  named  Hemeh  —  a  station  of  the  railway  from  the 
coast  not  far  beyond  told  me  as  much.  The  dreary  ranges  of  the  day 
before  fell  quickly  away.  The  highway  descended  a  narrow,  fertile 
valley  in  close  company  with  a  small  river,  on  the  banks  of  which  grew 
willows  and  poplars  in  profusion. 

A  bright  morning  sun  soon  made  the  air  grateful,  though  the  chill  of 
night  and  the  mountains  still  hovered  in  the  shadows.  Travelers  be- 
came frequent;  peasant  families  driving  their  asses  homeward  from 
the  morning  market,  bands  of  merchants  on  horseback,  well-to-do  na- 
tives in  a  garb  that  recalled  the  ill-omened  coat  of  Joseph.  Here 
passed  a  camel  caravan  whose  drivers  would,  perhaps,  purchase  just 
such  a  slave  of  his  brothers  this  very  day.  There  squatted  a  band  of 
Bedouins  at  breakfast  and  their  eating  was  as  ceremonial  as  any  meal 
among  the  ancient  Jews.  Beyond  rode  a  full-bearded  sheik  who  was 
surely  as  much  a  patriarch  in  appearance  as  Abraham  of  old. 

The  road  continued  its  descent,  the  passing  throng  became  almost 
a  procession,  and  I  swung  at  last  round  a  mountain  spur  that  had  hidden 
from  view  an  unequaled  sight.  Two  miles  away,  across  a  vast,  level 
plain,  traversed  by  the  sparkling  river,  and  peopled  by  a  battalion  of 
soldiers  in  mancjeuvre,  the  white  city  of  Damascus  stood  out  against 


130       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

a  background  of  dull-red  hills,  the  morning  sun  gleaming  on  graceful 
domes  and  minarets  of  superb  Saracenic  architecture.  It  was  an 
ultra-Oriental  panorama  before  which  that  first  quatrain  of  Omar 
sprang  unbidden  to  the  lips.  1  passed  on  with  the  throng  and  was 
soon  swallowed  up  in  the  multitude  that  surged  through  "  the  Street 
called  Straight  " —  which  is  n't. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CITIES   OF   OLD 

MORE  successfully  than  all  other  cities  of  its  age  and  fame, 
Damascus  has  repulsed  the  advance  of  Western  civilization 
and  invention.  To  be  sure,  the  whistle  of  the  locomotive  is 
heard  now  in  her  suburbs ;  for  besides  the  railway  to  the  coast,  a  new 
line  brings  to  the  ancient  city  the  produce  of  the  vast  and  fertile  Hauran 
beyond  Jordan.  A  few  single  telegraph  wires,  too,  connect  "  Shaam  " 
with  the  outside  world,  and  the  whir  of  the  American  sewing  machine 
is  heard  in  her  long,  vaulted  bazaars.  But  these  things  make  the  pre- 
historic way  of  the  city  the  stranger  by  comparison,  and  serve  to  re- 
mind the  traveler  that  he  is  not  on  another  sphere,  but  merely  far  re- 
moved from  the  progressive  and  prosaic  West. 

Here  is  a  man,  with  a  hammer  that  might  have  existed  in  the  stone 
age,  beating  into  shape  a  vessel  of  brass  on  a  flat  rock.  There  a 
father  and  son  are  turning  a  log  into  wooden  clogs  with  a  primitive 
bucksaw,  the  man  standing  on  the  log,  the  boy  kneeling  on  the  ground 
beneath.  Beyond  them  is  a  turning  lathe  such  as  the  workmen  of 
Solomon  may  have  used  in  the  building  of  his  temple.  The  operator 
squats  on  the  floor  of  his  open  booth,  facing  the  street  —  for  no 
Damascan  can  carry  on  his  business  with  his  back  turned  to  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  everchanging  multitude.  With  one  hand  he  draws 
back  and  forth  a  sort  of  Indian  bow,  the  cord  wound  once  round  the 
stick,  which,  whirling  almost  as  rapidly  as  in  a  steam  lathe,  is  fashioned 
into  the  desired  shape  by  a  chisel  held  with  the  left  hand  and  the  bare 
toes  of  the  artisan.  Mile  after  mile  through  the  endless  rows  of 
bazaars  such  prehistoric  trades  are  plied.  Not  a  foot  of  space  on 
either  side  of  the  narrow  streets  is  unoccupied.  Where  the  over- 
dressed owners  of  great  heaps  of  silks  and  rugs  have  left  a  pigeon- 
hole between  their  booths,  sits  the  ragged  vendor  of  sweetmeats  and 
half-inch  slices  of  cocoanut.  The  Damascan  does  not  set  up  his  busi- 
ness as  far  as  possible  from  his  competitors.  In  one  quarter  are 
crowded  a  hundred  manufacturers  of  the  red  fez  of  Islam.  In  another 
a  colony  of  brass  workers  make  a  deafening  din.     Beyond,  sounds 

131 


132       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  squeak  of  innumerable  saws  where  huge  logs  are  slowly  turned 
into  lumber  by  hand  power.  The  shopper  in  quest  of  a  pair  of  slippers 
may  wander  from  daylight  to  dusk  among  booths  overflowing  with 
every  other  imaginable  ware,  to  come  at  last,  when  he  is  ready  to  pur- 
chase the  first  thing  bearing  the  remotest  resemblance  to  footwear, 
into  a  section  where  slippers  of  every  size,  shape,  and  quality  are  dis- 
played in  such  superabundance  as  to  make  him  forget  from  very  be- 
wilderment what  he  came  for. 

To  endeavor  to  make  headway  against  the  surging  multitude  is 
much  like  attempting  to  swim  up  the  gorge  of  Niagara.  Long  lines 
of  camels  splash  through  the  human  stream,  utterly  indifferent  to  the 
urchins  under  their  feet.  Donkeys  all  but  hidden  under  enormous 
bundles  of  fagots  that  scrape  the  buildings  on  either  side,  asses  be- 
straddled  by  foul-mouthed  boys  who  guide  the  beasts  by  kicking  them 
behind  either  ear  and  urge  them  on  by  a  sound  peculiar  to  the  Arab 
—  a  disgusting  trilling  of  the  soft  palate  —  dash  with  set  teeth  out  of 
obscure  and  unexpected  side  streets.  Not  an  inch  do  they  swerve 
from  their  course,  not  once  do  they  slacken  their  pace.  The  faran- 
chee  who  expects  them  to  do  so  is  sure  to  receive  many  a  jolt  in  the 
ribs  from  asinine  shoulders  or  some  unwieldy  cargo  and  to  be  sent 
sprawling,  if  there  is  room  to  sprawl,  as  the  beast  and  his  driver 
glance  back  at  his  discomfiture  with  a  diabolical  gleam  in  their  eyes. 
Hairless,  scabby  mongrel  curs,  yellow  or  grey  in  color,  prowl  among 
the  legs  of  the  throng,  skulk  through  the  byways  devouring  the  refuse, 
or  lie  undisturbed  in  the  puddles  that  abound  in  every  street.  The 
donkey  may  knock  down  a  dozen  pedestrians  an  hour,  but  he  takes 
good  care  to  step  over  the  pariah  dogs  in  his  path.  Periodically  the 
mongrels  gather  in  bands  at  busy  corners,  yelping  and  snarling,  snap- 
ping their  yellow  fangs,  and  raising  an  infernal  din  that  impedes  bar- 
gainings a  hundred  yards  away.  If  a  bystander  wades  among  them 
with  his  stick  and  drives  them  off,  it  is  only  to  have  them  collect  again 
five  minutes  after  the  last  yelp  has  been  silenced. 

Where  in  the  Western  world  does  the  pursuit  of  dollars  raise  such  a 
hubbub  as  the  scramble  for  metleeks  in  the  streets  of  Damascus?  A 
dollar,  after  all,  is  a  dollar  and  under  certain  conditions  worth  shout- 
ing for ;  but  a  metleek  is  only  a  cent  and  the  incessant  calling  after  it, 
like  a  multitude  searching  the  wilderness  for  a  lost  child,  sounds 
penurious.  "  Metleek !  "  cries  the  seller  of  flat  loaves,  on  the  ground 
at  your  feet.  "  Metleek ! "  roars  the  gruff-voiced  nut  vendor,  fight- 
ing his  way  through  the  rabble,  basket  on  arm.     "  Metleek  I  *'  screams 


Damascus.     "The  street  called  Straight — which  is  n't' 


A  wood-turner  of  Damascus,     ii^   ..aiches  the  ever-passing  throng,  turning  the  stick 
with  a  bow  and  a  loose  string,  and  holding  the  chisel  with  his  toes 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  133 

the  wandering  bartender,  jingling  his  brass  disks.  Unendingly  the 
word  echoes  through  the  recesses  and  windings  of  the  bazaars;  com- 
mandingly  from  the  hawker  whose  novelty  has  attracted  the  ever- 
susceptible  multitude,  threateningly  from  the  sturdy  fellow  whose 
stand  has  been  deserted,  pleadingly  from  the  crippled  beggar  who 
threads  his  way  miraculously  through  the  human  whirlpool.  A  great, 
discordant  symphony  of  "  Metleek !  "  rises  over  the  land,  wherein  are 
I  blended  even  the  voices  of  the  pasha  in  his  palace,  the  mullah  in  his 
mosque,  and  His  Impuissant  Majesty  in  far-off  '*  Stamboul." 
Lives  there  a  man  in  all  the  realm  who  would  accept  a  larger  coin  even 
under  compulsion? 

One  figure  stands  out  as  the  most  miserable  in  all  the  teeming  life 
of  Damascus  —  the  Turkish  soldier.  The  burden  of  conscription  falls 
only  on  the  Mohammedan,  for  none  but  the  followers  of  the  prophet  of 
Medina  may  be  enrolled  under  the  Sick  Man's  banners.  The  recruit 
receives  a  uniform  of  the  shoddiest  material  once  a  year,  and  an  allow- 
ance of  about  two  cents  a  day.  What  the  allowance  will  not  cover, 
he  pays  for  out  of  his  meager  rations.  His  tobacco,  his  amusements, 
the  very  patches  on  his  miserable  uniform,  he  reckons  in  terms  of 
the  flabby  biscuits  that  are  served  out  to  him.  Every  morning  there 
sallies  forth  from  the  tumble-down  barracks  an  unkempt  private, 
hopeless  weariness  of  the  petty  things  of  life  stamped  on  his  coarse 
features,  his  garb  a  crazy  quilt  of  awkward  patches,  who,  holding 
before  him  a  sack  of  soggy  gkebis  contributed  by  his  fellow-conscripts, 
wanders  through  the  market  places,  adding  his  long-drawn  wail  to  che 
chorus  of  "  Metleek."  Individually,  he  is  a  gaunt  scarecrow ;  on 
parade  he  bears  far  more  resemblance  to  a  band  of  Bowery  bootblacks 
than  to  a  military  company.  In  outward  forms  he  is  as  devoutly  re- 
ligious as  his  taskmaster  at  Stamboul,  or  the  bejewelled  merchant 
who  picks  his  way  with  effeminate  tread  through  the  reeking  streets 
to  his  mosque.  Five  times  each  day  he  halts  for  his  prayers  wherever 
the  voice  of  the  muezzin  finds  him.  Not  even  his  racial  dread  of  water 
deters  him  from  performing  the  ablutions  required  by  the  Koran.  In 
spite  of  his  poverty  he  finds  means  to  stain  his  nails  with  henna,  and 
to  tattoo  the  knuckles  or  the  backs  of  his  hands  with  grotesque  figures 
that  assist  materially,  no  doubt,  in  the  ultimate  salvation  of  his  soul; 
and  he  snarls  angrily  at  the  dog  of  an  unbeliever  who  would  transfix 
his  image  on  photographic  paper. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  of  my  arrival  in  Damascus  a  surging  mul- 
titude swept  me  through  the  entrance  to  the  parade  ground  opposite  the 


134       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

barracks.  A  sea  of  up-turned  faces  surrounded  a  ragged  band  that 
was  perpetrating  a  concert  of  German  and  Italian  airs.  For  a  time 
I  hung  on  the  tail  of  the  crowd.  When  endurance  failed,  I  with- 
drew to  the  only  seat  in  evidence  —  a  stone  pile  in  a  far  corner  —  to 
change  the  film  in  my  kodak.  Almost  before  I  had  begun,  a  steady 
flow  of  humanity  set  in  towards  me.  In  a  twinkling  I  was  the  center 
of  a  jostling  throng  of  Damascans,  each  one  screaming  and  pushing 
for  a  view  of  the  strange  machine;  and  the  players  struggled  on  de- 
spairingly with  only  themselves  as  audience.  Distressed  at  having  un- 
intentionally set  up  a  counter  attraction,  I  closed  the  apparatus  and 
turned  away.  The  move  but  aggravated  the  difficulty.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  Damascans  gazed  hesitatingly  from  the  deserted  band  stand 
to  my  retreating  figure,  swelled  with  curiosity,  and  surged  pell-mell 
after  me.  My  reputation  as  a  self-sacrificing  member  of  society  was 
at  stake.  Bravely  I  turned  and  marched  back  to  the  struggling  mu- 
sicians —  the  adjective,  at  least,  is  used  advisedly  —  and  held  the  kodak 
in  plain  sight.  An  unprecedented  audience  of  music-lovers  quickly 
gathered  and  for  a  time  the  concert  moved  with  great  gusto.  But 
the  players  were  merely  human,  and  only  Arabian  humans  at  that. 
One  by  one  they  caught  sight  of  the  "queer  machine"  below  them. 
The  technique  faltered;  the  trombones  lost  the  key  —  or  found  it, 
which  was  quite  as  disconcerting;  the  fifers  paused;  the  cornetists 
lost  their  pucker ;  the  leader  turned  to  stare,  open-mouthed  as  the  rest, 
and  an  air  that  had  suggested,  here  and  there,  the  triumphal  march 
from  A'ida  died  a  lingering,  agonizing  death. 

This,  surely,  was  the  psychological  moment  for  a  photograph!  I 
opened  the  kodak.  A  hoarse  murmur  rose  from  the  multitude.  At 
last  they  recognized  the  nefarious  instrument!  I  pointed  it  at  the 
leader.  He  screamed  like  a  pin-pricked  infant,  a  man  beside  me 
snatched  at  the  kodak,  another  thumped  me  viciously  in  the  ribs,  a 
third  tore  at  my  hair,  and  the  frenzied  population  of  Damascus  swept 
down  upon  me,  bent  on  wreaking  summary  vengeance  on  a  defiler 
of  their  religious  superstitions.  I  left  them  entangled  in  their  own 
legs  and  darted  under  the  band  stand  towards  the  gate.  A  guard  bel- 
lowed at  me.  I  squirmed  through  his  arms  and  sped  far  away  through 
the  half-deserted  streets  of  the  music-loving  metropolis. 

Darkness  was  falling  when  I  caught  breath  in  some  unknown  cor- 
ner of  the  city.  Long  lines  of  merchants  were  setting  up  the  board- 
shutters  before  their  booths.  Hardly  a  straggler  remained  of  the 
maudHn,  daytime  multitude.     Dismally  I  wandered  through  the  laby- 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  135 

rinth  so  animate  at  noonday,  shut  in  on  either  side  by  endless,  high 
board  fences.  It  mattered  not  in  what  European  language  I  inquired 
for  an  inn  from  belated  citizens ;  each  one  muttered  "  m'abaraf shee," 
and  hurried  on.  I  sat  down  before  a  lighted  tobacco  booth  and  feigned 
sleep.  The  proprietor  came  out  to  drive  off  the  curs  sniffing  at  my 
feet  and  led  the  way  to  a  neighboring  khan,  in  which  the  keeper  spread 
me  a  bed  of  blankets  on  the  cobble-stone  floor. 

I  ventured  next  day  into  the  "  Hotel  Stamboul,"  a  proud  hostelry 
facing  the  stable  that  serves  Damascus  as  post  office,  with  little  hope 
either  of  making  known  my  wants  or  of  finding  the  rate  within  my 
means.  The  proprietor,  strange  to  say,  mutilated  a  little  French  and, 
stranger  still,  assigned  me  to  a  room  at  eight  cents  a  day.  The  cost 
of  living  was  thereby  reduced  to  a  mere  nothing.  The  Arab  has  a 
great  abhorrence  of  eating  his  fill  at  definite  hours  and  prefers  to 
nibble,  nibble  all  day  long  as  if  in  constant  fear  of  losing  the  use  of 
his  jaws  by  a  moment's  inactivity.  Countless  shops  in  Damascus 
cater  to  this  nibbling  trade.  For  a  copper  or  two  they  serve  a  well- 
filled  dish  of  fruit,  nuts,  sweetmeats,  pastry,  puddings,  ragoiit,  syrups, 
or  a  variety  of  indigenous  products  and  messes  which  no  Westerner 
could  identify.  They  are  savory  portions,  too,  for  the  Arab  cook, 
however  much  he  may  differ  in  methods  from  the  Occidental  chef, 
knows  his  profession.  Like  the  street  hawker  who  sells  a  quart  of 
raisins  for  a  cent  —  the  Mohammedan  makes  no  wine  —  his  prices  seem 
scarcely  worth  the  collecting;  and  be  his  customer  Frank  or  Mussul- 
man, they  never  vary.  In  the  seaports  of  the  Orient  the  whiteman 
must  expect  to  be  "  done."  The  ignorance  and  asininity  of  generations 
of  tourists  have  turned  seaside  merchants  into  commercial  vultures. 
In  untutored  Damascus  not  a  shopkeeper  attempted  to  cheat  me  out  of 
the  fraction  of  a  copper. 

Four  days  I  had  passed  in  Damascus  before  I  turned  to  the  problem 
of  how  to  get  out  of  it.  I  had  planned  to  strike  southwestward 
through  the  country  to  Nazareth.  On  the  map  the  trip  seemed  easy. 
The  journey  from  the  coast  had  proved,  however,  that  the  sketches  of 
the  gazeteer  were  little  to  be  trusted  in  this  mysterious  country.  The 
highway  from  the  coast,  moreover,  is  one  of  the  few  roads  in  all  the 
land  between  Smyrna  and  the  Red  Sea.  Across  the  Bedouin-infected 
wilderness  between  Damascus  and  Nazareth  lay  only  a  vaguely  marked 
route,  traversed  in  springtime  by  a  great  concourse  of  pilgrims.  In 
this  late  December  the  rainy  season  was  at  hand.  Several  violent 
downpours,  that  would  have  convinced  the  most  skeptical  of  the  literal 


t 

136       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

truth  of  the  Biblical  account  of  the  deluge,  had  already  burst  over 
Damascus,  storms  that  were  sure  to  have  reduced  Palestine  to  a  soggy 
marsh  and  turned  its  summer  brooks  into  roaring  torrents. 

The  passage,  however,  could  not  have  been  more  difficult  than  the 
gathering  of  information  concerning  it.  The  dwellers  in  the  cities  of 
Asia  Minor  are  the  most  incorrigible  stay-at-homes  on  the  globe. 
Travel  for  pleasure  or  instruction  they  have  never  dreamed  of.  Only 
the  direst  necessity  can  draw  them  forth  from  their  accustomed 
haunts,  and  they  know  no  more  of  the  territory  a  few  miles  outside 
their  walls  than  of  the  antipodes.  It  cost  me  a  half-day's  search  to 
find  the  American  consulate,  a  shame-faced  hovel  decorated  with  a 
battered  shield  of  the  size  and  picturesqueness  of  a  peddler's  license. 
The  consul  himself  opened  the  door  and  my  hopes  fell  —  for  he  was  a 
native.  A  real  American  would  have  seen  my  point  of  view  and  given 
me  all  the  information  in  his  power.  This  suave  and  lady-like  mortal 
dealt  out  cigarettes  with  a  lavish  hand  and  delved  into  the  details  of 
my  existence  back  to  the  fourth  generation;  but  directions  he  would 
not  give,  on  the  ground  that  when  I  had  been  stolen  by  Bedouins  or 
washed  away  by  the  rain  my  ghost  would  rise  up  in  the  hours  of 
darkness  to  denounce  him.  His  last  reason,  especially,  was  forceful. 
"  If  you  attempt  to  go  to  Nazareth  on  foot,"  he  cried,  "  you  will  get 
tired." 

Towards  evening  I  ran  to  earth  in  the  huddled  bazaars  a  French- 
speaking  tailor  who  claimed  to  have  made  the  first  few  miles  of  the 
journey.  Gleefully  I  jotted  down  his  expHcit  directions.  An  hour's 
walk,  next  morning,  brought  me  out  on  a  wind-swept  stretch  of  grey- 
ish sand  beyond  the  city.  For  some  miles  a  vague  path  led  across  the 
monotonous  waste.  Pariah  dogs  growled  and  snarled  over  the  putrid 
carcasses  of  horses  and  sheep  that  lined  the  way.  The  wind  whirled 
aloft  tiny  particles  of  sand  that  bit  my  cheeks  and  filled  my  eyes.  A 
chilling  rain  began  to  fall,  sinking  quickly  into  the  desert.  At  the 
height  of  the  storm  the  path  ceased  at  the  brink  of  a  muddy  torrent 
that  it  would  have  been  madness  to  have  attempted  to  cross.  A  soli- 
tary shepherd  plodded  along  the  bank  of  the  stream.  I  pointed  across 
it  and  shouted,  "  Banias  ?  Nazra  ?  "  The  Arab  stared  at  me  a  mo- 
ment, tossed  his  arms  aloft,  crying  to  Allah  to  note  the  madness  of  a 
roving  faranchee,  and  sped  away  across  the  desert. 

I  plodded  back  to  the  city.  In  the  armorers'  bazaar  a  sword-maker 
called  out  to  me  in  German  and  I  halted  to  renew  my  inquiries.  The 
workman  paused  in  his  task  of  beating  a   scimitar  to  venture  his 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  137 

solemn  opinion  that  the  tailor  was  an  imbecile  and  an  ass,  and  assured 
nie  that  the  road  to  Nazareth  left  the  city  in  exactly  the  opposite  di- 
rection. "  'Tis  a  broad  caravan  trail,"  he  went  on,  "  opening  out  be- 
yond the  shoemakers'  bazaar."  A  bit  more  hopeful,  I  struck  off 
a^ain  next  morning. 

The  assertion  of  Abdul  that  it  was  "  ver'  col'  "  in  Damascus  was 
not  without  foundation.  In  the  sunshine  summer  reigned,  but  in  the 
shadow  lurked  a  chill  that  penetrated  to  the  bones.  On  this  cloudy 
morning  the  air  was  biting.  Before  I  had  passed  the  last  shoemaker's 
booth  a  cold  drizzle  set  in.  On  the  desert  it  turned  to  a  wet  snow 
that  clung  to  bush  and  boulder  like  shreds  of  white  clothing.  A  toe 
protruded  here  and  there  from  my  dilapidated  cloth  slippers.  The 
sword-maker,  apparently,  had  indulged  in  a  practical  joke  at  my  ex- 
pense. A  caravan  track  there  was  beyond  the  last  wretched  hovel,  a 
track  that  showed  for  miles  across  the  bleak  country.  But  though  it 
might  have  taken  me  to  Bagdad  or  the  steppes  of  Siberia,  it  certainly 
did  not  lead  to  the  land  of  the  chosen  people. 

I  turned  and  trotted  back  to  the  city,  cheered  on  by  the  anticipation 
of  such  a  fire  as  roars  up  the  chimneys  of  American  homes  on  the 
memorable  days  of  the  first  snow.  The  anticipation  proved  my  igno- 
rance of  Damascan  customs.  The  proprietor  and  his  guests  were 
shivering  over  a  pan  of  coals  that  could  not  have  heated  a  doll's  house. 
I  fought  my  way  into  the  huddled  group  and  warmed  alternately  a 
finger  and  a  toe.  But  the  chill  of  the  desert  would  not  leave  me.  A 
servant  summoned  the  landlord  to  another  part  of  the  building.  He 
picked  up  the  "  stove  "  and  marched  away  with  it,  and  I  took  leave  of 
my  quaking  fellow-guests  and  went  to  bed,  as  the  only  possible  place 
to  restore  my  circulation. 

Dusk  was  falling  the  next  afternoon  when  I  stumbled  upon  the 
British  consulate.  Here,  at  last,  was  a  man.  The  dull  natives  with 
their  slipshod  mental  habits  had  given  me  far  less  information  in  four 
days  than  I  gained  from  a  five-minute  interview  with  this  alert 
Englishman.  He  was  none  the  less  certain  than  they,  however,  that] 
the  overland  journey  was  impossible  at  that  season.  Late  reports 
from  the  Waters  of  Meron  announced  the  route  utterly  impassable. 

The  consul  was  a  director  of  the  Beirut-Damascus  line.  Railway 
directors  in  Asia  Minor  have,  evidently,  special  privileges.  For  the 
Englishman  assured  me  that  a  note  over  his  signature  would  take  me 
back  to  the  coast  as  readily  as  a  ticket.  The  next  day  I  spent  Christ- 
mas in  a  stuffy  coach  on  the  cogwheel  railway  over  the  Lebanon  and 


138       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

stepped  out  at  Beirut,  shortly  after  dark,  to  run  directly  into  the  arms 
of  Abdul  Razac  Bundak. 

Our  **  company  "  was  definitely  dissolved  on  the  afternoon  of  De- 
cember twenty-seventh  and  I  set  out  for  Sidon.  Here,  at  least,  I  could 
not  lose  my  way,  for  I  had  but  to  follow  the  coast.  Even  Abdul,  how- 
ever, did  not  know  whether  the  ancient  city  was  one  or  ten  days  dis- 
tant. A  highway  through  an  olive  grove,  where  lean  Bedouins  squat- 
ted on  their  hams,  soon  broke  up  into  several  diverging  footpaths.  The 
one  I  chose  led  over  undulating  sand  dunes  where  the  misfit  shoes  that 
I  had  picked  up  in  a  pawn  shop  of  Beirut  soon  filled  to  overflowing. 
I  swung  them  over  a  shoulder  and  plodded  on  barefooted.  A  roar- 
ing brook  blocked  the  way.  I  crossed  it  by  climbing  a  willow  on  one 
bank  and  swinging  into  the  branches  of  another  opposite,  and  plunged 
into  another  wilderness  of  sand. 

Towards  dusk  I  came  upon  a  peasant's  cottage  on  a  tiny  plain  and 
halted  for  water.  A  youth  in  the  Sultan's  crazy  quilt,  sitting  on  the 
well  curb,  brought  me  a  basinful.  I  had  started  on  again  when  a  voice 
rang  out  behind  me,  "  He !  D'ou  est-ce  que  vous  venez  ?  Oil  est-ce 
que  vous  allez?"  In  the  doorway  of  the  hovel  stood  a  slatternly 
woman  of  some  fifty  years  of  age.     I  mentioned  my  nationality. 

"  American  ?  "  cried  the  feminine  scarecrow,  this  time  in  English, 
as  she  rushed  out  upon  me,  "  My  God !  You  American?  Me  Amer- 
ican, too !     My  God !  " 

The  assertion  seemed  scarcely  credible,  as  she  was  decidedly  Syr- 
ian, both  in  dress  and  features. 

"  Yes,  my  God ! "  she  went  on,  "  I  live  six  years  in  America,  me ! 
I  go  back  to  America  next  month!  I  not  see  America  for  one  year. 
Come  in  house !  " 

I  followed  her  into  the  cottage.  It  was  the  usual  dwelling  of  the 
peasant  class  —  dirt  floor,  a  kettle  hanging  over  an  open  fire  in 
one  corner,  a  few  ears  of  corn  and  bunches  of  dried  grapes  suspended 
from  the  ceiling.  On  one  of  the  rough  stone  walls,  looking  strangely 
out  of  place  amid  this  Oriental  squalor,  was  pinned  a  newspaper 
portrait  of  McKinley. 

**  Oh,  my  God!  "  cried  the  woman,  as  I  glanced  towards  the  distor- 
tion, "  Me  Republican,  me.  One  time  I  see  McKinley  when  I  peddle 
by  Cleveland,  Ohio.  You  know  Cleveland  ?  My  man  over  there  " — 
she  pointed  away  to  the  fertile  slopes  of  the  Lebanon  — "  My  man  go 
back  with  me  next  month,  vote  one  more  time  for  Roosevelt." 

The  patch-work  youth  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  139 

"  Taala  hena,  Maghmood,"  bawled  the  boisterous  Republican. 
"  This  American  man !  He  no  have  to  go  for  soldier  fight  long  time 
for  greasy  old  Sultan.  Not  work  all  day  to  get  bishleek,  him !  Get 
ten,  fifteen,  twenty  bishleek  day!  Bah!  You  no  good,  you!  Why 
for  you  not  run  away  to  America  ?  " 

The  soldier  listened  to  this  more  or  less  English  with  a  silly  smirk 
on  his  face  and  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  with  every  fourth 
word.  The  woman  repeated  the  oration  in  her  native  tongue.  The 
youth  continued  to  grin  until  the  words  "  ashara,  gkamsashar,  ashreen  " 
turned  his  smirk  to  wide-eyed  astonishment,  and  he  dropped  on  his 
haunches  in  the  dirt,  as  if  his  legs  had  given  way  under  the  weight  of 
such  untold  wealth. 

The  woman  ran  a  sort  of  lodging  house  in  an  adjoining  stone  hut 
and  insisted  that  I  spend  the  night  there.  Her  vociferous  affection 
for  Americans  would,  no  doubt,  have  forced  her  to  cling  to  my  coat- 
tails  had  I  attempted  to  escape.  Chattering  disconnectedly,  she  pre- 
pared a  supper  of  lentils,  bread-sheets,  olives,  and  crushed  sugar  cane, 
and  set  out  —  to  the  horror  of  the  Mohammedan  youth  —  a  bottle  of 
beet  (native  wine).  The  meal  over,  she  lighted  a  narghileh,  leaned 
back  in  a  home-made  chair,  and  blew  smoke  at  the  ceiling  with  a  far- 
away look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  "  You  sing  American  song !  I 
like  this  no-good  soldier  hear  good  song.  Then  he  sing  Arab  song 
for  you." 

I  essayed  the  role  of  wandering  minstrel -with  misgiving.  At  the 
first  Hues  of  "  The  Swanee  River  "  the  conscript  burst  forth  in  a  roar 
of  laughter  that  doubled  him  up  in  a  paroxysm  of  mirth. 

"  You  damn  fool,  you,"  bellowed  the  female,  shaking  her  fist  at  the 
prostrate  property  of  the  Sultan.  **  You  no  know  what  song  is! 
American  songs  wonderful !     Shut  up !     I  split  your  head  !  " 

This  gentle  hint,  rendered  into  Arabic,  convinced  the  youth  of  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  he  listened  most  attentively  with  sef 
teeth  until  the  Occidental  concert  was  ended. 

When  his  turn  came,  he  struck  up  a  woeful  monotone  that  sounded 
not  unlike  the  wailing  of  a  lost  soul,  and  sang  for  nearly  an  hour  in 
about  three  notes,  shaking  his  head  and  rocking  his  body  back  and 
forth  in  the  emotional  passages  as  his  voice  rose  to  an  ear-splitting 

The  dirge  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  from  the  darkness  outside. 
The  woman  called  back  in  answer,  and  two  ragged,  bespattered  Bed- 


I40       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ouins  pushed  into  the  hut.  The  howhng  and  shouting  that  ensued 
left  me  undecided  whether  murder  or  merely  highway  robbery  had 
been  committed.  The  contention,  however,  subsided  after  a  half- 
hour  of  shaking  of  fists  and  alternate  reduction  to  the  verge  of  tears, 
and  my  hostess  took  from  the  wall  a  huge  key  and  stepped  out,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Bedouins. 

"  You  know  what  for  we  fight  ?  "  she  demanded,  as  she  returned 
alone.  "  They  Arabs.  Want  to  sleep  in  my  hotel.  They  want  pay 
only  four  coppers.  I  say  must  pay  five  coppers  —  one  metleek. 
Bah !    This  country  no  good." 

Four-fifths  of  a  cent  was,  perhaps,  as  great  a  price  as  she  should 
have  demanded  from  any  lodger  in  the  "  hotel "  to  which  she  con- 
ducted me  a  half-hour  later. 

All  next  day  I  followed  a  faintly-marked  path  that  clung  closely 
to  the  coast,  swerving  far  out  on  every  headland  as  if  fearful  of 
losing  itself  in  the  solitude  of  the  moors.  Here  and  there  a  woe- 
begone peasant  from  a  village  in  the  hills  was  toiling  in  a  tiny  patch. 
Across  a  stump  or  a  gnarled  tree  trunk,  always  close  at  hand,  leaned 
a  long,  rusty  gun,  as  primitive  in  appearance  as  the  wooden  plow 
which  the  tiny  oxen  dragged  back  and  forth  across  the  fields.  Those 
whose  curiosity  got  the  better  of  them  served  as  illustrations  to  the 
Biblical  assertion,  "  No  man  having  put  his  hand  to  the  plow  and 
looking  back  is  fit  for  the  kingdom  of  Heaven."  For  the  implement 
was  sure  to  strike  a  root  or  a  rock,  and  the  peasant  who  picked 
himself  up  out  of  the  mire  could  never  have  been  admitted  by  the 
least  fastidious  St.  Peter.  Nineteen  showers  flung  their  waters  upon 
me  during  the  day,  showers  that  were  sometimes  distinctly  separated 
from  each  other  by  periods  of  sunshine,  showers  that  merged  one  into 
another  through  a  dreary  drizzle. 

A  wind  from  off  the  Mediterranean  put  the  leaden  clouds  to  flight 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  sun  was  smiling  bravely  when  the  path 
turned  into  a  well-kept  road,  winding  through  a  forest  of  orange 
trees  where  countless  natives,  in  a  garb  that  did  not  seem  particularly 
adapted  to  such  occupation,  were  stripping  the  overladen  branches  of 
their  fruit.  Her  oranges  and  her  tobacco  give  livelihood  —  of  a  sort 
—  to  the  ten  thousand  inhabitants  of  modern  Sidon.  From  the  first 
shop  in  the  outskirts  to  the  drawbridge  of  the  ruined  castle  boldly 
facing  the  sea,  the  bazaar  was  one  long,  orange-colored  streak.  The 
Sidonese  who  gathered  round  me  in  the  market  would  have  buried 
me  under  their  donations  of  the  fruit  —  windfalls  that  had  split  open 


Women  of  Bethlehem  going  to  the  Church  of  the  Nativity 


The  mc 


thickly  settled  portion  of  Damascus  is  the  graveyard. 
A  picture  taken  at  risk  of  mobbing 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  141 

—  had  I  not  waved  them  off  and  followed  one  of  their  number,  I 
knew  not  whither. 

He  turned  in  at  a  gate  that  gave  admittance  to  a  large  walled  in- 
closure.  From  the  doors  and  down  the  outside  stairways  of  a  large 
building  in  its  center  poured  a  multitude  of  boys  and  youths,  in  drab- 
colored  uniforms,  shrieking  words  of  welcome.  A  young  man  at  the 
head  of  the  throng  reached  me  first. 

"  They  students,"  he  cried ;  "  I  am  teacher.  This  American  Mission 
College.  They  always  run  to  see  white  man  because  they  study  white 
man's  language  and  country !  " 

Every  class  in  the  institution,  evidently,  had  been  dismissed  that 
they  might  attend  an  illustrated  lecture  on  anthropology.  The  stu- 
dents formed  a  circle  about  me,  and  the  "  teacher  "  marched  round 
and  round  me,  discoursing  on  the  various  points  of  my  person  and 
dress  that  differed  from  the  native,  as  glibly  as  any  medical  failure 
over  a  cadaver. 

"  Will  you,  kind  sir,"  he  said,  pausing  for  breath,  "  will  you  show 
to  my  students  the  funny  things  with  which  the  white  man  holds  up 
his  stockings  ?  " 

I  refused  the  request,  indignantly,  of  course  —  the  bare  thought 
4i  such  immodesty!  Besides,  those  important  articles  of  my  attire 
had  long  since  been  gathered  into  the  bag  of  a  Marseilles  rag-picker. 

I  moved  towards  the  gate. 

"  Wait,  sir,"  cried  the  tutor,  "  very  soon  the  American  president  of 
the  school  comes.     He  will  give  you  supper  and  bed." 

"  I  '11  pay  my  own,"  I  answered. 

"  What !  "  shouted  the  Syrian,  "  You  got  metleek  ?  Thees  man  bring 
you  here  because  you  sit  in  the  market-place  like  you  have  no 
money." 

Some  time  later,  as  I  emerged  from  an  eating  shop,  a  native  sprang 
forward  with  a  wild  shout  and  grasped  me  by  the  hand.  Grinning 
with  self-complacency  at  his  knowledge  of  the  faranchee  mode  of 
greeting,  he  fell  to  working  my  arm  like  a  pump  handle,  yelping  at 
the  same  time  an  unbroken  string  of  Arabic  that  rapidly  brought 
down  upon  us  every  lounger  in  the  market-place.  He  was  dressed  in 
the  blanket-like  cloak  and  the  flowing  headdress  of  the  countryman. 
His  weather-beaten  visage,  at  best  reminiscent  of  a  blue-ribbon  bull- 
dog, was  rendered  hideous  by  a  broken  nose  that  had  been  driven 
entirely  out  of  its  normal  position  and  halfway  into  his  left  cheek. 
Certainly  he  was  no  new  acquaintance.     For  some  moments  I  strug- 


142       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

gled  to  recall  where  I  had  seen  that  wreck  of  a  face  before.  From 
the  jumble  that  fell  from  his  lips  I  caught  a  few  words: — "  locanda, 
bnam,  Beirut."  Then  I  remembered.  He  of  the  pump-handle  move- 
ment had  occupied  a  bed  beside  my  own  during  my  first  days  in 
Beirut  and  had  turned  the  nights  into  purgatory  by  wailing  a  native 
song  in  a  never-changing  monotone,  while  he  rolled  and  puffed  at  in- 
numerable cigarettes. 

When  I  had  disengaged  my  aching  arm  I  enquired  for  an  inn.  My 
long-lost  roommate  nodded  his  head  and  led  the  way  to  the  one  large 
building  abutting  on  the  street,  a  blank  wall  of  sun-baked  bricks 
some  forty  feet  in  length,  unbroken  except  for  a  door  through  which 
the  Arab  pushed  me  before  him.  We  found  ourselves  in  a  vast, 
gloomy  room,  its  walls  the  seamy  side  of  the  sun-baked  bricks,  its 
floor  trampled  earth,  and  its  flat  roof  supported  by  massive  beams  of 
such  wood  as  Hiram  sent  to  Solomon  for  the  temple  on  Mt.  Moriah. 
Save  for  a  bit  of  space  near  the  door,  the  room  was  crowded  with 
camels,  donkeys,  dogs,  and  men,  and  heaps  of  bundled  merchandise. 
It  was  the  Sidon  khan,  a  station  for  the  caravan  trains  that  make  their 
way  up  and  down  the  coast.  Across  the  room,  above  the  door,  ran  a 
wooden  gallery,  some  ten  feet  wide.  My  companion  pushed  me  up  the 
ladder  before  him,  took  two  blankets  —  evidently  his  own  property  — 
from  a  heap  in  the  corner,  and,  spreading  them  out  in  a  space  unoc- 
cupied by  prostrate  muleteers  or  camel  drivers,  invited  me  to  lie 
down. 

The  scene  below  us  was  a  very  pandemonium.  Donkeys,  large  and 
small,  lying,  standing,  kicking,  braying,  broke  away,  now  and  then,  to 
lead  their  owners  a  merry  chase  in  and  out  of  the  throng.  Reclining 
camels  chewed  their  cud,  and  gazed  at  the  chaos  about  them  with 
scornful  dignity.  Others  of  these  phlegmatic  beasts,  newly  arrived, 
shrilly  protested  against  kneeling  until  their  cursing  masters  could 
relieve  them  of  their  loads.  Men  and  dogs  were  everywhere.  Gaunt 
curs  glared  about  them  like  famished  wolves.  Men  in  coarse  cloaks, 
that  resembled  grain-sacks  split  up  the  front,  were  cudgeling  their 
beasts,  quarreling  over  the  sharing  of  a  blanket,  or  shrieking  at  the 
keeper  who  collected  the  khan  dues.  Among  them,  less  excited  mortals 
squatted,  singly  or  in  groups,  on  blankets  spread  between  a  camel 
and  an  ass,  rolled  out  the  stocking-like  rags  swinging  over  their 
shoulders,  and  fell  to  munching  their  meager  suppers.  Here  and 
there  a  man  stood  barefopted  on  his  cloak,  deaf  to  every  sound  about 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  143 

him,  salaaming  his  reverences  towards  the  south  wall,  beyond  which 
lay  Mecca. 

Before  the  first  grey  of  dawn  appeared,  the  mingling  sounds  that 
had  made  an  incessant  murmur  during  the  night  increased  to  a 
roar.  There  came  the  tinkling  of  bells  on  ass  and  dromedary,  the 
braying  and  cursing  of  the  denizens  of  the  desert  Men  wrestled  with 
unwieldy  cargoes,  or  cudgeled  animals  reluctant  to  take  up  their  bur- 
dens. At  frequent  intervals  the  door  beneath  our  gallery  creaked, 
and  one  by  one  the  caravans  filed  out  into  the  breaking  day. 

The  khan  was  almost  empty  when  I  descended  the  ladder.  Late 
risers  were  hurrying  through  their  prayers  or  loading  the  few  animals 
that  remained.  The  keeper,  sitting  crosslegged  near  the  door,  rolled 
me  a  cigarette  and  demanded  a  bishleek  for  my  lodging.  I  knew  as 
well  as  he  that  such  a  price  was  preposterous,  and  he  was  fully  av/are 
of  my  knowledge.  He  had  merely  begun  the  skirmish  that  is  the 
preliminary  of  every  financial  transaction  in  the  East.  A  little  ex- 
perience with  Oriental  merchants  imbues  the  faranchee  traveler  with 
the  spirit  of  haggling;  when  he  learns,  as  soon  he  will,  that  every 
tradesman  who  gets  the  better  of  him  laughs  at  him  for  a  fool,  self- 
respect  comes  to  the  rescue.  For  who  would  not  spend  a  half-hour  of 
sluggish  Eastern  time  to  prove  that  the  men  of  his  nation  are  no  in- 
feriors in  astuteness  to  these  suave  followers  of  "  Maghmood,"  however 
small  may  be  the  amount  under  discussion? 

By  the  time  my  cigarette  was  half  finished  I  had  reduced  the  price 
to  four  metleeks.  Before  I  tossed  it  away,  the  keeper  of  the  khan 
had  accepted  a  mouth-organ  that  had  somehow  found  its  way  into  my 
pack  and  about  three  reeds  of  which  responded  to  the  most  powerful 
pair  of  lungs ;  and  he  bade  me  good-bye  with  a  much  more  respectful 
opinion  of  faranchees  than  he  would  have  done  had  I  paid  the  first 
amount  demanded. 

^-  The  wail  of  a  leather-lunged  muezzin  echoed  across  the  wilderness 
as  I  set  off  again  to  the  southward.  A  road  that  sallied  forth  from 
the  city  stopped  short  at  the  edge  of  an  inundated  morass  and  left 
me  to  lay  my  own  course,  guided  by  the  booming  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  cheering  prospect  of  a  night  out  of  doors  lay  before  me ; 
for,  if  the  map  was  to  be  trusted,  the  next  village  was  fully  two  days 
distant.  Mile  after  mile  the  way  led  over  slippery  spurs  of  the  moun- 
tain chain  and  across  marshes  in  which  I  sank  halfway  to  my  knees, 
with  here  and  there  a  muddy  stream  to  be  forded.     Only  an  occasional 


144       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

sea  gull,  circling  over  the  waves,  gave  life  to  the  dreary  landscape. 
A  few  isolated  patches  showed  signs  of  cultivation,  but  the  cold,  \m 
cessant  downpour  kept  even  the  hardy  peasants  cooped  up  in  theij 
villages  among  the  hills  to  the  eastward. 

The  utter  solitude  was  broken  but  once  by  a  human  being,  a  ragged' 
muleteer  splashing  northward  as  fast  as  the  clinging  mud  permitted. 
On  his  face  was  the  utter  dejection  of  one  who  had  been  denied 
admittance  at  St.  Peter's  gate.  At  sight  of  me  he  struggled  to  in- 
crease his  pace  and,  pointing  away  through  the  storm,  bawled  plain- 
tively, "  Homar,  efendee?  Shoof!  Fee  homar  henak?"  (Ass,  sir? 
Look!  Is  there  an  ass  beyond?)  When  I  shook  my  head  he  lifted 
up  his  voice  and  wept  in  true  Biblical  fashion,  and  stumbled  on  across 
the  morass. 

The  gloomy  day  was  waning  when  I  plunged  into  a  valley  of  rank 
vegetation,  where  several  massive  stone  ruins  and  a  crumbling  stone 
bridge  that  humped  its  back  over  a  wandering  stream,  suggested  an 
ancient  center  of  civilization.  I  scanned  the  debris  for  a  hole  in 
which  to  sleep.  Shelter  there  was  none,  and  a  gnawing  hunger  pro- 
tested against  a  halt.  From  the  top  of  the  bridge  an  unhoped-for 
sight  caught  my  eye.  Miles  away,  at  the  end  of  a  low  cape  that  ran  far 
out  into  the  sea,  rose  a  slender  minaret,  surrounded  by  a  jumble  of  flat 
buildings.  I  tore  my  way  through  the  undergrowth  with  hope  re- 
newed and  struck  out  towards  the  unknown,  perhaps  unpeopled,  ham- 
let. 

Dusk  turned  to  utter  darkness.  For  an  interminable  period  I 
staggered  on  through  the  mire,  sprawling,  now  and  then,  in  a  stinking 
slough.  The  lapping  of  waves  sounded  at  last,  and  I  struck  a  solider 
footing  of  sloping  sand.  Far  ahead  twinkled  a  few  lights,  so  far  out 
across  the  water  that,  had  I  not  seen  the  village  by  day,  I  had  fancied 
them  the  illuminated  portholes  of  a  steamer  at  anchor.  The  beach 
described  a  half-circle.  The  twinkling  lights  drew  on  before  like 
wills  o'  the  wisp.  The  flat  sand  gave  way  to  rocks  and  boulders  — 
the  ruins,  apparently,  of  ancient  buildings  —  against  which  I  barked 
my  shins  repeatedly. 

I  had  all  but  given  up  in  despair  the  pursuit  of  the  fugitive 
glowworms,  when  the  baying  of  dogs  fell  on  my  ear.  An  unveiled 
corner  of  the  moon  disclosed  a  faintly  defined  path  up  the  sloping 
beach,  which,  leading  across  the  sand-dunes,  brought  up  against  a  fort- 
like building,  pierced  in  the  center  by  a  gateway.     Two  flickering 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  145 

lights  under  the  archway  cast  weird  shadows  over  a  group  of  Arabs, 
huddled  in  their  blankets. 

The  arrival  of  any  traveler  at  such  an  hour  was  an  event  to  bring 
astonishment;  a  mud-bespattered  faranchee  projected  thus  upon  them 
out  of  the  blackness  of  the  night  brought  them  to  their  feet  with 
excited  cries.  I  pushed  through  the  group  and  plunged  into  a  maze 
of  wretched,  hovel-choked  alleyways.  Silence  reigned  in  the  bazaars, 
but  the  keeper  of  one  squalid  shop  was  still  dozing  over  his  pan  of 
coals  between  a  stack  of  aged  bread-sheets  and  a  simmering  kettle  of 
sour-milk  soup.  I  prodded  him  into  semi-wakefulness  and,  gathering 
in  the  gkebis,  sat  down  in  his  place.  He  dipped  up  a  bowl  of  soup 
from  force  of  habit,  then  catching  sight  of  me  for  the  first  time, 
generously  distributed  the  jelly-like  mixture  over  my  outstretched 
legs. 

The  second  serving  reached  me  in  the  orthodox  manner.  To  the 
nibbling  Arabs  who  had  ranged  themselves  on  the  edge  of  the  circle 
of  light  cast  by  the  shop  lamp,  a  bowl  of  soup  was  an  ample  meal  for 
one  man.  When  I  called  for  a  second,  they  stared  open-mouthed. 
Again  I  sent  the  bowl  back.  The  bystanders  burst  forth  in  a  roar  of 
laughter  which  the  deserted  labyrinth  echoed  back  to  us  a  third  and 
a  fourth  time,  and  the  boldest  stepped  forward  to  pat  their  stomachs 
derisively. 

I  inquired  for  an  inn  as  I  finished.  A  ragged  Sampson  stepped 
into  the  arc  of  light  and  crying  "  taala,"  set  off  to  the  westward. 
Almost  at  a  trot,  he  led  the  way  by  cobbled  streets,  down  the  center 
of  which  ran  an  open  sewer,  up  hillocks  and  down,  under  vaulted 
bazaars  and  narrow  archways,  by  turns  innumerable. 

He  stopped  at  last  before  a  high  garden  wall,  behind  which,  among 
the  trees,  stood  a  large  building  of  monasterial  aspect. 

"  Italiano  faranchee  henak,"  he  said,  raising  the  heavy  iron  knocker 
over  the  gate  and  letting  it  fall  with  a  boom  that  startled  the  dull 
ear  of  night.  Again  and  again  he  knocked.  The  muffled  sound  of 
an  opening  door  came  from  the  distant  building.  A  step  fell  on  the 
graveled  walk,  a  stejp  that  advanced  with  slow  and  stately  tread  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  gate;  then  a  deep,  reverberant  voice  called 
out  something  in  Arabic. 

I  replied  in  Italian ;  "  I  am  a  white  man,  looking  for  an  Inn." 
The  voice  that  answered  was  trained  to  the  chanting  of  masses. 
One  could  almost  fancy  himself  in  some  vast  cathedral,  listening  to 


146      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  Vv^ORLD 

an  invocation  from  far  back  in  the  nave,  as  the  words  came,  deep  and 
sharp-cut,  one  from  another :  "  Non  si  riceveno  qui  pellegrini."  The 
scrape  of  feet  on  the  graveled  w^alk  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  a  heavy 
door  slammed;  and  all  was  still. 

The  Arab  put  his  ear  to  the  keyhole  of  the  gate,  scratched  his 
head  in  perplexity,  and  with  another  "  taala  "  dashed  off  once  more. 
A  no  less  devious  route  brought  us  out  on  the  water  front  of  the  back 
bay.  In  a  brightly  lighted  cafe  sat  a  dozen  convivial  souls  over 
narghilehs  and  coffee.  My  cicerone  paused  some  distance  away  and 
set  up  a  wailing  chant  in  which  the  word  "  faranchee  "  was  often  re- 
peated. Plainly,  the  revelers  gave  small  credence  to  this  cry  of 
Frank  out  of  the  night.  Calmly  they  continued  smoking  and  chatter- 
ing, peering  indifferently,  now  and  then,  into  the  outer  darkness. 
The  Arab  drew  me  into  the  circle  of  light.  A  roar  went  up  from  the 
carousers  and  they  tumbled  pell-mell  out  upon  us. 

My  guide  was,  evidently,  a  village  butt,  rarely  permitted  to  apjpear 
before  his  fellow-townsman  in  so  important  a  role.  Fame,  at  last, 
was  knocking  at  his  door.  His  first  words  tripped  over  each  other 
distressingly,  but  his  racial  eloquence  of  phrase  and  gesture  came  to 
the  rescue,  and  he  launched  forth  in  a  panegyric  such  as  never  con- 
gressional candidate  suffered  at  the  hands  of  a  rural  chairman.  His 
zeal  worked  his  undoing.  From  every  dwelling  within  sound  of  his 
trumpet-like  voice  poured  forth  half-dressed  men  who,  crowding 
closely  around,  raised  a  Babel  that  drowned  out  the  orator  before  his 
introductory  premise  had  been  half  ended.  An  enemy  suggested  an 
adjournment  to  the  cafe  and  left  the  new  Cicero  —  the  penniless  being 
denied  admittance  —  to  deliver  his  maiden  speech  to  the  unpeopled 
darkness. 

The  keeper,  with  his  best  company  smile,  placed  a  chair  for  me  in 
the  center  of  the  room;  the  elder  men  grouped  themselves  about  me 
on  similar  articles  of  furniture ;  and  the  younger  squatted  on  their 
haunches  around  the  wall.  The  language  of  signs  was  proving  a 
poor  means  of  communication,  when  a  native,  in  more  elaborate 
costume,  pushed  into  the  circle  and  addressed  me  in  French.  With 
an  interpreter  at  hand,  nothing  short  of  my  entire  biography  would 
satisfy  my  hearers ;  and  to  avoid  any  semblance  of  partiality,  I  was 
forced  to  swing  round  and  round  on  my  stool  in  the  telling,  despite 
the  fact  that  only  one  of  the  audience  understood  the  queer  faranchee 
words.  The  proprietor,  meanwhile,  in  a  laudable  endeavor  to  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shone,  made  the  circuit  of  the  room  at  frequent 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  147 


intervals,  asking  each  with  what  he  could  serve  him.  Those  few 
wlio  did  not  order  were  ruthlessly  pushed  into  the  street,  where  a 
throng  of  boys  and  penniless  men  flitted  back  and  forth  on  the  edge 
of  the  light,  peering  m  upon  us.  Anxious  to  secure  the  good-will  of 
so  unusual  an  attraction,  the  keeper  ran  forward  each  time  my  whirling 
brought  him  within  my  field  of  vision  to  offer  a  cup  of  thick  coffee, 
a  narghileh,  or  a  native  liquor. 

I  concluded  my  saga  with  the  statement  that  I  had  left  Sidon  that 
morning. 

"  Impossible !  "  shouted  the  interpreter.  *'  No  man  can  walk  from 
Sidra  to  Soor  in  one  day." 

"  Soor  ? "  I  cried,  recognizing  the  native  name  for  Tyre,  and 
scarcely  believing  my  ears.     **  Is  this  Soor  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible,"  gasped  the  native,  *'  that  you  have  not  recognized 
the  ancient  city  of  Tyre?  Yes,  indeed,  my  friend,  this  is  Soor.  But 
if  you  have  left  Sidon  this  morning  you  have  slept  a  night  on  the  way 
without  knowing  it." 

I  turned  the  conversation  by  inquiring  the  identity  of  the  worthies 
about  me.  The  interpreter  introduced  them  one  by  one.  The  village 
scribe,  the  village  barber,  the  village  carpenter,  the  village  tailor,  and 
—  even  thus  far  from  the  land  of  chestnut  trees —  the  village  black- 
smith were  all  in  evidence.  Most  striking  of  all  the  throng  in  ap- 
pearance was  a  young  man  of  handsome,  forceful  face  and  sturdy, 
well-poised  figure,  attired  in  a  flowing,  jet-black  gown  and  almost 
as  black  a  fez.  From  time  to  time  he  rose  to  address  his  companions 
on  the  all-important  topic  of  faranchees.  A  gift  of  native  eloquence 
of  which  he  seemed  supremely  unconscious,  and  the  long  sweep  of  his 
gown  over  his  left  shoulder  with  which  he  ended  every  discourse,  re- 
called my  visualization  of  Hamlet.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  he 
was  only  a  common  sailor,  and  that  in  a  land  where  the  seaman  is  re- 
garded as  the  lowest  of  created  beings. 

"  Hamlet  "  owed  his  position  of  authority  on  this  occasion  to  a 
single  journey  to  Buenos  Ayres.  After  long  striving,  I  succeeded  in 
exchanging  with  him  a  few  meager  ideas  in  Spanish,  much  to  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  "  regular  "  interpreter,  who,  posing  as  a  man  of  un- 
exampled erudition,  turned  away  with  an  angry  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  fell  upon  my  unguarded  knapsack.  I  swung  round  in  time  to 
find  him  complacently  turning  the  film-wind  of  my  kodak  and  claw- 
ing at  the  edges  in  an  attempt  to  open  it.  If  one  would  keep  his 
possessions  intact  in  the  East  he  must  sit  upon  them,  for  not  even  the 


148      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

apes  of  the  jungle  have  the  curiosity  of  the  Oriental  nor  less  realiza- 
tion of  the  difference  between  mine  and  thine. 

The  city  fathers  of  Tyre,  in  solemn  conviviality  assembled,  re- 
solved unanimously  that  I  could  not  be  permitted  to  continue  on 
foot.  Some  days  before,  midway  between  Tyre  and  Acre,  a  white  man 
had  been  found,  murdered  by  some  blunt  instrument  and  nailed  to  the 
ground  by  a  stake  driven  through  his  body.  The  tale  was  told,  with 
the  fullness  of  detail  doted  on  by  our  yellow  journals,  in  French  and 
crippled  Spanish;  and  innumerable  versions  in  Arabic  were  followed 
by  an  elaborate  pantomime  by  the  village  carpenter,  with  Hamlet  and 
the  scribe  as  the  assassins,  and  the  tube  of  a  water-pipe  as  the  stake. 
Midnight  had  long  since  passed.  I  promised  the  good  citizens  of  Tyre 
to  remain  in  their  city  for  a  day  of  reflection,  and  inquired  for  a 
place  to  sleep. 

Not  a  man  among  them,  evidently,  had  thought  of  that  problem. 
The  assemblage  resolved  itself  into  a  committee  of  the  whole  and 
spent  a  good  half  hour  in  weighty  debate.  Then  the  interpreter  rose 
to  communicate  to  me  the  result  of  the  deliberations.  There  was  no 
public  inn  in  the  city  of  Tyre  —  they  thanked  God  for  that.  But  its 
inhabitants  had  ever  been  ready  to  treat  royally  the  stranger  within 
their  gates.  The  keeper  of  the  cafe  had  a  back  room.  In  that  back 
room  was  a  wooden  bench.  The  keeper  was  moved  to  give  me  per- 
mission to  occupy  that  back  room  and  that  bench.  Nay !  Even  more ! 
He  was  resolved  to  spread  on  that  bench  a  rush  mat,  and  cover  me 
over  with  what  had  once  been  the  sail  of  his  fishing-smack.  But  first 
he  must  ask  me  one  question.  Aye!  The  citizens  of  Tyre,  there  as- 
sembled, must  demand  an  answer  to  that  query  and  the  spokesman 
abjured  me,  by  the  beard  of  Allah,  to  answer  truthfully  and  de- 
liberately. 

I  moved  the  previous  question.  The  village  elders  hitched  their 
stools  nearer,  the  squatters  strained  their  necks  to  listen.  The  man 
of  learning  gasped  twice,  nay,  thrice,  and  broke  the  utter  silence  with 
a  tense  whisper:  — 

"  Are  you,  sir,  a  Jew?  " 

I  denied  the  allegation. 

"  Because,"  went  on  the  speaker,  "  we  are  haters  of  the  Jews  and 
no  Jew  could  stop  in  this  cafe  over  night,  though  the  clouds  rained 
down  boulders  and  water-jars  on  our  city  of  Tyre." 

The  keeper  fulfilled  his  promise  to  the  letter  and,  putting  up  the 
shutters  of  the  cafe,  locked  me  in  and  marched  away. 


Tyre  is  now  a  miserable  village  connected  with  the  mainland 
by  a  wind-blown  neck  of  sand 


Agriculture  in  Palestine.     There  is  not  an  ounce  of  iron  about  the  plow 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  149 

The  nephew  of  the  village  carpenter,  a  youth  educated  in  the 
American  Mission  School  of  Sidon,  appointed  himself  my  guide  next 
morning.  The  ancient  city  of  Tyre  is  to-day  a  collection  of  stone  and 
mud  hovels,  covering  less  than  a  third  of  the  sandy  point  that  once 
teemed  with  metropolitan  life,  and  housing  four  thousand  humble 
humans,  destitute  alike  of  education,  arts,  and  enterprise.  Our  pil- 
grimage began  at  the  narrow  neck  of  wind-blown  sand  —  all  that  re- 
mains of  the  causeway  of  Alexander.  To  the  south  of  the  present 
liamlet,  once  the  site  of  rich  dwellings,  stretched  rambling  rows 
of  crude  head-stones  over  Christian  and  Mohammedan  graves,  a 
dreary  spot  above  which  circled  and  swooped  a  few  sombre  rooks. 
On  the  eastern  edge  a  knoll  rose  above  the  pathetic  village  wall,  a 
rampart  that  would  not  afford  defense  against  a  self-confident  goat. 
Below  lay  a  broad  playground,  worn  bare  and  smooth  by  the 
tramp  of  many  feet,  peopled  now  by  groups  of  romping  children  and 
here  and  there  an  adult  loafing  under  the  rays  of  the  December  sun. 
Only  a  few  narrow  chasms,  from  which  peeped  the  top  of  a  window  or 
door,  served  to  remind  the  observer  that  he  was  not  looking  down  upon 
an  open  space,  but  on  the  flat  housetops  of  the  closely-packed  city. 

Further  away  rose  an  unsteady  minaret,  and  beyond,  the  tree- 
girdled  dwelling  of  the  Italian  monks.  To  the  north,  in  the  wretched 
roadstead,  a  few  decrepit  fishing  smacks,  sad  remnants  of  the  fleets 
whose  mariners  once  caroused  and  sang  in  the  streets  of  Tyre,  lay 
at  anchor.  Down  on  the  encircling  beach,  half  buried  under  the 
drifting  sands  and  worn  away  by  the  lapping  waves,  lay  the  ruins  of 
what  must  long  ago  have  been  great  business  blocks.  The  Tyreans 
of  to-day,  mere  parasites,  have  borne  away  stone  by  stone  these  edi- 
fices of  a  mightier  generation  to  build  their  own  humble  habitations. 
Even  as  we  looked,  a  half  dozen  ragged  Arabs  were  prying  off  the 
top  of  a  great  pillar  and  loading  the  fragments  into  a  dilapidated 
feluca. 

A  narrow  street  through  the  center  of  the  town  forms  the  boundary 
between  her  two  religions.  To  the  north  dwell  Christians,  to  the 
south  Metawalies,  Mohammedans  of  unorthodox  superstitions.  Their 
women  do  not  cover  their  faces,  but  tattoo  their  foreheads,  cheeks, 
and  hands.  To  them  the  unpardonable  sin  is  to  touch,  ever  so  sHghtly, 
a  being  not  of  their  faith.  Ugly  scowls  greeted  our  passage  in  all 
this  section.  I  halted  at  a  shop  to  buy  oranges.  A  mangy  old  crone 
tossed  the  fruit  at  me  and,  spreading  a  cloth  over  her  hand,  stretched 
it   out.     I   attempted   to   lay   the   coppers   in   her   open   palm.     She 


I50       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

snatched  her  hand  away  with  a  snarl  and  a  display  of  yellow  fangs 
less  suggestive  of  a  human  than  of  a  mongrel  over  a  bone. 

"  Hold  your  hand  above  hers  and  drop  the  money,"  said  my  com- 
panion.    "  If  you  touch  her,  she  is  polluted." 

To  a  mere  unbeliever  the  danger  of  pollution  seemed  reversed. 
But  mayhap  it  is  not  given  to  unbelievers  to  see  clearly. 

Once  across  the  line  of  demarkation  cheery  greetings  sounded  from 
every  shop.  Generations  of  intermarriage  have  welded  this  Christian 
community  into  one  great  family.     Often  the  youth  halted  to  observe : 

**  Here  lives  my  uncle;  that  man  is  my  cousin;  this  shop  belongs  to 
my  sister's  husband;  in  that  house  dwells  the  brother-in-law  of  my 
father." 

America  was  the  promised  land  to  every  denizen  of  this  section. 
Hardly  a  man  of  them  had  given  up  hope  of  putting  together  money 
enough  to  emigrate  to  the  new  world.  The  brother  of  my  guide 
voiced  a  prayer  that  I  had  often  heard  among  the  Christians  of  Asia 
Minor. 

"  We  hope  more  every  day,"  he  said,  "  that  America  will  some  time 
take  this  land  away  from  the  Turks,  for  the  Turks  are  rascals  and 
the  king  rascal  is  the  Sultan  at  Stamboul.  Please,  you,  sir,  get 
America  to  do  this  when  you  come  back." 

My  cicerone  was  a  true  Syrian,  in  his  horror  of  travel.  His  family 
had  been  Christians  —  of  the  Greek  faith  —  for  generations,  and 
Nazareth  and  Jerusalem  lay  just  beyond  the  ranges  to  the  eastward ; 
yet  neither  he,  his  father,  nor  any  ancestor,  to  his  knowledge,  had 
ever  journeyed  further  than  to  Sidon.  His  teachers  had  imbued  him 
with  an  almost  American  view  of  life,  had  instilled  in  him  a  code  of 
personal  morals  at  utter  variance  with  those  of  this  land,  in  w^hich 
crimes  ranging  from  bribery  to  murder  are  discussed  in  a  spirit  of 
levity  by  all  classes.  But  they  had  not  given  him  the  energy  of  the 
West,  nor  convinced  him  that  the  education  he  had  acquired  was 
something  more  than  an  added  power  for  the  amassing  of  metleeks. 
Some  day,  when  he  had  money  enough,  he  would  go  to  America  to 
turn  his  linguistic  ability  into  more  money.  Meanwhile,  he  squatted 
on  his  haunches  in  the  filth  of  Tyre,  waiting  more  patiently  than 
Micawber  for  something  to  "  turn  up." 

The  highest  ideal,  to  the  people  he  represented,  is  the  merchant  — 
a  middle-man  between  work  and  responsibility  who  may  drone  out  his 
days  in  reposeful  self-sufiiciency.  The  round  of  the  streets  led  us 
to  the  liquor  and  fruit  shop  kept  by  his  father,  a  flabby-skinned  fel- 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  151 

low  who  stretched  his  dereHct  bulk  on  a  divan  and  growled  whenever 
a  client  disturbed  his  day-dreams.  To  his  son  he  was  the  most 
fortunate  being  in  Tyre. 

"  Why,"  cried  the  youth  in  admiration,  "  he  never  has  to  do  any- 
thing but  rest  in  his  seat  all  day  and  put  up  his  shutters  and  go  home 
at  night !  Would  you  not  like  to  own  a  shop  and  never  have  to  work 
again  all  the  days  of  your  life?  " 

My  answer  that  the  denouement  of  such  a  fate  would  probably  be 
the  sighing  of  willows  over  a  premature  grave  was  lost  upon  him. 

An  unprecedented  throng  was  gathered  in  the  cafe  when  I  reached 
it  in  the  evening.  The  proprietor  danced  blindly  about  the  room,  well 
nigh  frantic  from  an  ambitious  but  vain  endeavor  to  serve  all  comers. 
"  Hamlet,"  done  with  his  day's  fishing  and  his  sea-going  rags,  was 
again  on  hand  to  give  unconscious  entertainment.  The  village  scribe, 
if  the  bursts  of  laughter  were  as  unforced  as  they  seemed,  had  brought 
with  him  a  stock  of  witty  tales  less  threadbare  than  those  of  the 
night  before;  and  the  expression  on  the  face  of  my  guide,  and  his 
repeated  refusals  to  interpret  them,  suggested  that  the  stories  were 
not  of  the  jeune  fille  order. 

The  village  carpenter  was  the  leader  of  the  opposition  against 
my  departure  on  foot,  and  finding  that  his  pantomime  had  not  aroused 
in  me  a  becoming  dread  of  the  Bedouin-infected  wilderness,  he  set  out 
on  a  new  tack.  A  coasting  steamer  was  due  in  a  few  days.  He  pro- 
posed that  the  assembled  Tyreans  take  up  a  collection  to  pay  my  pas- 
sage to  the  next  port,  and  set  the  ball  rolling  by  dropping  a  bishleek 
into  his  empty  coffee  cup.  A  steady  flow  of  metleeks  had  already 
set  in  before  my  protests  grew  vociferous  enough  to  check  it.  Why 
I  should  refuse  to  accept  whatever  they  proposed  to  give  was  some- 
thing very  few  of  these  simple  fellows  could  understand.  The  car- 
penter wiped  out  all  my  arguments  in  the  ensuing  debate  by  summing 
up  with  that  incontestable  postulate  of  the  Arab :  "  Sir,"  he  cried, 
by  interpreter,  appealing  to  the  others  for  confirmation,  "  if  you  go 
to  Acre  on  foot,  you  will  get  tired !  " 

I  slept  again  on  the  rush  mat.  My  guide  and  his  uncle  accompanied 
me  through  the  city  gate  next  morning,  still  entreating  me  to  recon- 
sider my  rash  decision.  The  older  man  gave  up  just  outside  the  vil- 
lage and  with  an  "  Allah  m'akum' "  (the  Lord  be  with  you)  hurried 
back,  as  if  the  unwonted  experience  of  getting  out  of  sight  of  his 
workshop  had  filled  him  with  unconquerable  terror.  The  youth  halted 
beyond  the  wind-blown  neck  of  sand,  and,  after  entreating  me  to  send 


152       A  VAGABOxND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

for  him  as  soon  as  I  returned  to  America,  fled  after  his  uncle.  From 
this  distance  the  gloomy  huddle  of  kennels  behind  recalled  even  more 
readily  than  a  closer  view  those  Unes  of  the  wandering  bard ; 

"  Dim  is  her  glory,  gone  her   fame, 
Her  boasted  wealth  has  fled. 
On  her  proud  rock,  alas,  her  shame, 
The  fisher's  net  is  spread. 
The  tyrean  harp  has  slumbered  long, 
And  Tyria's  mirth  is  low; 
The  timbrel,  dulcimer,  and  song 
Are  hushed,  or  wake  to  woe." 

For  the  first  few  miles  the  way  led  along  the  hard  sands  of  the 
beach.  Beyond,  the  "  Ladder  of  Tyre,"  a  spur  of  the  Lebanon  falling 
sharply  off  into  the  sea,  presented  a  precipitous  slope  that  I  scaled  with 
many  bruises.  Few  spots  on  the  globe  present  a  more  desolate  pros- 
pect than  the  range  after  range  of  barren  hills  that  stretch  out  from 
the  summit  of  the  *'  Ladder."  Half  climbing,  half  sliding,  I  descended 
the  southern  slope  and  struggled  on  across  a  trackless  country  in  a 
never-ceasing  downpour. 

It  was  the  hour  of  nightfall  when  the  first  habitation  of  man  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  lifeless  waste.  Half  famished,  I  hurried  towards 
it.  At  a  distance  the  hamlet  presented  the  appearance  of  a  low 
fortress  or  blockhouse.  The  outer  fringe  of  buildings  —  all  these 
peasant  villages  form  a  more  or  less  perfect  circle  —  were  set  so  closely 
together  as  to  make  an  almost  continuous  wall,  with  never  a  window 
nor  door  opening  on  the  world  outside.  I  circled  half  the  town  be- 
fore I  found  an  entrance  to  its  garden  of  miseries.  The  hovels, 
partly  of  limestone,  chiefly  of  baked  mud,  were  packed  like  stacks 
in  a  scanty  barnyard.  The  spaces  between  them  left  meager  passages, 
and,  being  the  village  dumping  grouncTand  sewer  as  well  as  the  com- 
munal barn,  reeked  with  every  abomination  of  man  and  beast.  In 
cleanliness  and  picturesqueness  the  houses  resembled  the  streets. 
Here  and  there  a  human  sty  stood  open  and  lazy  smoke  curled  up- 
ward from  its  low  doorway ;  for  the  chimney  is  as  yet  unknown  in 
rural  Asia  Minor. 

A  complete  circuit  of  the  "  city  "  disclosed  no  shops  and  I  began  a 
canvass  of  the  hovels,  stooping  to  thrust  my  head  through  the  smoke- 
choked  doorways,  and  shaking  my  handkerchief  of  coins  in  the  faces 
of  the  half  asphyxiated  occupants,  with  a  cry  of  "  gkebis."  Wretched 
hags  and  half-naked  children  glared  at  me.     My  best  pulmonary  effects 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  153 

evoked  no  more  than  a  snarl  or  a  stolid  stare.  Only  once  did  I  re- 
ceive verbal  reply.  A  peasant  whose  garb  was  one-fourth  cloth,  one- 
fourth  the  skin  of  some  other  animal,  and  one-half  the  accumulated 
filth  of  some  two-score  years,  squatted  in  the  center  of  the  last  hut, 
eating  from  a  stack  of  newly  baked  bread-sheets.  Having  caught  him 
with  the  goods,  I  bawled  '*  gkebis  "  commandingly.  He  turned  to  peer 
at  me  through  the  smoke  with  the  lack-luster  eye  of  a  dead  haddock. 
Once  more  I  demanded  bread.  A  diaboHcal  leer  overspread  his  fea- 
tures. He  rose  to  a  crouching  posture,  a  doubled  sheet  between  his 
fangs,  and,  springing  at  me  half  way  across  the  hut,  roared,  "  MA 
FEESH!" 

Now  there  is  no  more  forcible  word  in  the  Arabic  language  than 
"  ma  feesh."  It  is  rich  in  meanings,  among  which  "  there  is  none !  " 
"  We  have  n't  any !  "  "  None  left !  "  "  Can't  be  done !  "  and  "Noth- 
ing doing !  "  are  but  a  few.  The  native  can  give  it  an  articulation  that 
would  make  the  most  aggressive  of  bulldogs  put  his  tail  between  his 
legs  and  decamp.  My  eyes  certainly  had  not  deceived  me.  There 
was  bread  and  plenty  of  it.  But  somehow  I  felt  no  longing  to  tarry, 
near  nightfall,  in  a  fanatical  village  far  from  the  outskirts  of  civiliza- 
tion, to  wage  debate  with  an  Arab  who  could  utter  "  ma  feesh  "  in  that 
tone  of  voice.  With  never  an  audible  reply,  I  fled  to  the  encircling 
wilderness. 

The  sun  was  settling  to  his  bath  in  the  Mediterranean.  Across  the 
pulsating  sea  to  the  beach  below  the  village  stretched  an  undulating 
ribbon  of  orange  and  red.  Away  to  the  eastward,  in  the  valleys  of 
the  Lebanon,  darkness  already  lay.  On  the  rugged  peaks  a  few  isolated 
trees,  swaying  in  a  swift  landward  breeze,  stood  out  against  the  even- 
ing sky.  Within  hail  of  the  hamlet  a  lonely  shepherd  guarded  a  flock 
of  fat-tailed  sheep.  Beyond  him  lay  utter  solitude.  The  level  plain 
soon  changed  to  row  after  row  of  sand  dunes,  unmarked  by  a  single 
footprint,  over  which  my  virgin  path  rose  and  fell  with  the  regularity 
of  a  tossing  ship. 

The  last  arc  of  the  blazing  sun  sank  beneath  the  waves.  The  pris- 
matic ribbon  quivered  a  moment  longer,  faded,  and  disappeared,  leav- 
ing only  an  unbroken  expanse  of  black  water.  Advancing  twilight 
dimmed  the  outline  of  the  swaying  trees,  the  very  peaks  lost  individ- 
uality and  blended  into  the  darkening  sky  of  evening.  In  the  trough 
of  the  sand  dunes  the  night  made  mysterious  gulfs  in  which  the  eye 
could  not  distinguish  where  the  descent  ended  and  the  ascent  began. 

Invariably  I   stumbled  half  way  up  each  succeeding  slope.    The 


154       A  VAGABOND  JOURxNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

shifting  sands  muffled  to  silence  my  footsteps.  On  the  summit  of  the 
ridges  sounded  a  low  moaning  of  the  wind,  rising  and  falling  like 
far-oflf  sobbing.  A  creative  imagination  might  easily  have  peopled 
the  surrounding  blackness  with  flitting  forms  of  murderous  nomads. 
Somewhere  among  these  never-ending  ridges  the  "  staked  faranchee  " 
had  been  done  to  death. 

Mile  after  mile  the  way  led  on,  rising  and  falling  as  rhythmically 
as  though  over  and  over  the  same  sandy  billow.  Sunset  had  dispelled 
the  rain,  but  not  a  star  broke  through  the  overcast  sky,  and  only  the 
hoarse-voiced  boom  of  the  breakers  guided  my  steps.  Now  and  then  I 
halted  at  the  summit  of  a  ridge  to  search  for  the  glimmer  of  a  distant 
light  and  to  strain  my  ears  for  some  other  sound  than  the  wailing  of 
the  wind  and  the  muffled  thunder  of  the  ocean.  But  even  Napoleon 
was  once  forced  to  build  a  hill  from  which  to  sweep  the  horizon  before 
he  could  orientate  himself  in  this  billowy  wilderness. 

The  surly  peasant  was  long  since  forgotten  when,  descending  a  ridge 
with  my  feet  raised  high  at  each  step  in  anticipation  of  a  succeeding 
ascent,  I  plunged  into  a  slough  in  which  I  sank  almost  to  my  knees. 
From  force  of  habit  I  plowed  on.  The  booming  of  the  waves  grew 
louder,  as  if  the  land  receded,  and  the  wind  from  off  the  sea  blew 
stronger  and  more  chilling.  Suddenly  there  sounded  at  my  feet  the 
rush  of  waters.  I  moved  forward  cautiously  and  felt  the  edge  of  what 
seemed  to  be  a  broad  river,  pouring  seaward.  It  was  an  obstacle  not 
to  be  surmounted  on  a  black  night.  I  drew  back  from  the  brink  and, 
finding  a  spot  that  seemed  to  ofifer  some  resistance  beneath  my  feet, 
threw  myself  down. 

But  I  sank  inch  by  inch  into  the  morass,  and  fearful  of  being  buried 
before  morning,  I  rose  and  wandered  towards  the  sea.  On  a  slight 
rise  of  ground  I  stumbled  over  a  heap  of  cobblestones,  piled  up  at 
some  earlier  date  by  the  peasants.  I  built  a  bed  of  stones  under  the 
lee  of  the  pile,  tucked  my  kodak  in  a  crevice,  and  pulling  my  coat  over 
my  head,  lay  down.  A  patter  of  rain  sounded  on  the  coat,  then  an- 
other and  another,  faster  and  faster,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  there 
began  a  downpour  that  abated  not  once  during  the  night.  The  heap 
afforded  small  protection  against  the  piercing  wind,  and,  being  short 
and  semicircular  in  shape,  compelled  me  to  lie  motionless  on  my  right 
side,  for  only  my  body  protected  the  kodak  and  films  beneath.  The 
rain  quickly  soaked  through  my  clothing  and  ran  in  rivulets  along  my 
skin.  The  wind  turned  colder  and  whistled  through  the  chinks  of  the 
pile.     The  sea  boomed  incessantly,  and  in  the  surrounding  marshes 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  155 

colonies  of  unwearying  frogs  croaked  a  dismal  refrain.  Thus,  on  the 
fringe  of  the  Mediterranean,  I  watched  out  the  old  year,  and,  though 
not  a  change  in  the  roar  of  the  sea,  the  tattoo  of  the  storm,  nor  the 
note  of  a  frog,  marked  the  hour,  I  was  certainly  awake  at  the  waning. 

An  Oriental  proverb  tells  us  that  "  He  who  goes  not  to  bed  will  be 
early  up."  He  who  goes  to  bed  on  a  rock  pile  will  also  be  up  betimes  — 
though  with  difficulty.  The  new  year  was  peering  over  the  Lebanon 
when  I  rose  to  my  feet.  My  left  leg,  though  creaking  like  a  rusty 
armor,  sustained  me;  but  I  had  no  sooner  shifted  my  weight  to  the 
right  than  it  gave  way  like  a  thing  of  straw  and  let  me  down  with 
disconcerting  suddenness  in  the  mud.  By  dint  of  long  massaging,  I 
recovered  the  use  of  the  limb;  but  even  then  an  attempt  to  walk  in  a 
straight  line  sent  me  round  in  a  circle  from  left  to  right.  Daylight 
showed  the  river  to  be  lined  with  quicksands.  It  was  broad  and  swift, 
but  not  deep,  and  some  distance  up  the  stream  I  effected  a  crossing 
without  sinking  below  my  armpits.  Far  off  to  the  southeast  lay  a 
small  forest.  A  village,  perhaps,  was  hidden  in  its  shade,  and  I  dashed 
eagerly  forward  through  a  sea  of  mud. 

The  forest  turned  out  to  be  a  large  orange  grove,  surrounded  by  a 
high  hedge  and  a  turgid,  moat-like  stream.  There  was  not  a  human 
habitation  in  sight.  The  trees  were  heavily  laden  with  yellow  fruit.  I 
cast  the  contents  of  my  knapsack  on  the  ground,  plunged  through  moat 
and  hedge,  and  tore  savagely  at  the  tempting  fare.  With  half -filled 
bag  I  regained  the  plain,  caught  up  my  scattered  belongings,  and  struck 
southward,  peeling  an  orange.  The  skin  was  close  to  an  inch  thick, 
the  fruit  inside  would  have  aroused  the  dormant  appetite  of  an 
Epicurean.  Greedily  I  stuffed  a  generous  quarter  into  my  mouth  — 
and  stopped  stock-still  with  a  sensation  as  of  a  sudden  blow  in  the 
back  of  the  neck.  The  orange  was  as  green  as  the  Emerald  Isle,  its 
juice  more  acrid  than  a  half-and-half  of  vinegar  and  gall !  I  peeled 
another  and  another.  Each  was  more  sour  and  bitter  than  its  fore- 
runner. Tearfully  I  dumped  the  treasure  trove  in  the  mire  and  stum- 
bled on. 

Two  hours  later,  under  a  blazing  sun  —  so  great  is  the  contrast  in 
this  hungry  land  between  night  and  unclouded  day  —  I  entered  a  na- 
tive village,  more  wretched  if  possible  than  that  of  the  night  before. 
Scowls  and  snarls  greeted  me  in  almost  every  hut;  but  one  hideously 
tattooed  female  pushed  away  the  proffered  coins  and  thrust  into  my 
hands  two  bread-sheets  the  ragged  edge  of  which  showed  the  marks  of 
infant  teeth.     They  were  as  tender  as  a  sea  boot,  as  palatable  as  a 


156      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

bath  towel,  and  satisfied  my  hunger  as  a  peanut  would  have  satisfied 
that  of  an  elephant.  But  no  amount  of  vociferation  could  induce  the 
villagers  to  part  with  another  morsel,  and,  thankful  for  small  favors, 
I  trudged  on. 

A  well-marked  path,  inundated  here  and  there  and  peopled  by  bands 
of  natives,  turned  westward  beyond  an  ancient  aqueduct,  and  at  noon- 
day I  passed  through  the  fortified  gate  of  Acre.  The  power  of  faran- 
chee  appetites  was  the  absorbing  topic  of  conversation  in  the  strong- 
hold when  I  fell  in  with  a  band  of  emigrating  Bedouins,  and  departed. 
The  white  city  of  HaiflFa,  perched  on  the  nose  of  recumbent  Mt.  Carmel 
across  the  bay,  seemed  but  a  stone's  throw  distant.  It  was  an  illusion 
of  sea  and  sun,  however.  Long  hours  I  splashed  after  the  Arabs 
through  surf  and  rivulet  along  the  narrow  beach,  my  shoes  swinging 
over  my  shoulder,  and  night  had  fallen  before  we  parted  in  the  Haiffan 
market  place. 

At  a  Jewish  inn,  in  Haiffa,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  fellow- 
countryman.  He  was  a  dragoman  of  a  well-known  tourist  company, 
born  in  Nazareth,  of  Arab  blood,  and  had  never  been  outside  the  con- 
fines of  Asia  Minor.  His  grandfather  had  lived  a  few  years  in  New 
York,  and,  though  the  good  old  gentleman  had  long  since  been  gathered 
to  his  fathers,  his  descendants  were  still  entitled  to  flaunt  his  naturali- 
zation papers  in  the  faces  of  the  Turkish  police  and  tax-gatherers  and 
to  greet  travelers  from  the  new  world  as  compatriots.  Nazry  Kawar, 
the  dragoman,  was  overjoyed  at  the  meeting.  He  dedicated  the  after- 
noon to  drawing,  for  my  benefit,  sketches  of  the  routes  of  Palestine, 
and  took  his  leave,  promising  to  write  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
his  uncle,  a  Nazarene  dentist. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  passed  through  the  vaulted  market  of 
Haiffa  and  out  upon  the  road  to  Nazareth.  It  was  really  a  road,  re- 
paired not  long  before  for  the  passage  of  the  German  Emperor ;  but  al- 
ready the  labor  of  the  Sultan's  servants  had  been  half  undone  by  the 
peasants,  to  whom  a  highway  is  useful  only  as  an  excellent  place  in 
which  to  pitch  stones  picked  up  in  the  adjoining  fields.  For  once  the 
day  was  clear  and  balmy  and  a  sunshine  as  of  June  illuminated  the  rug- 
ged fields  and  their  tillers.  Towards  noon,  in  the  bleak  hills  beyond  the 
first  village,  two  Bedouins,  less  bloodthirsty  than  hungry,  fell  upon  me 
while  I  ate  my  lunch  by  the  wayside.  Though  they  bombarded  me 
with  stones  from  opposite  sides,  they  threw  like  boarding-school  misses 
and  dodged  like  ocean  liners,  and  I  had  wrought  more  injury  than  I  had 
received  when  I  challenged  them  to  a  race  down  the  highway.     They 


On  the  road  between  Haifa  and  Nazareth  I  meet  a  road-repair 
gang,  all  women  but  the  boss 


On  the  summit  of  Jebel  es  Sihk,  back  of  Nazareth.     From  left  to  right: 

Shukry  Nasr,  teacher;  Elias  Awad,  cook;  and  Nehme  Siman, 

teacher;  my  hosts  in  Nazareth 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  157 

were  no  mean  runners,  but  the  appearance  over  the  first  hill  of  a  road- 
repair  gang,  a  score  of  bronze- faced,  sinewy  women  under  command 
of  a  skirt-clad  male,  forced  them  to  postpone  their  laudable  attempt  to 
win  favor  with  the  houris. 

An  hour  later  I  gained  the  highest  point  of  the  route.  Far  below 
the  highway,  colored  by  that  peculiar  atmosphere  of  Palestine  a  deli- 
cate blue  that  undulated  and  trembled  in  the  afternoon  sunshine, 
stretched  the  vast  plain  of  Esdraelon,  walled  by  mountain  ranges  that 
seemed  innumerable  leagues  away.  The  route  crawled  along  the  top 
of  the  western  wall,  choked  here  between  two  mountain  spurs,  breath- 
ing freely  there  on  a  tiny  plateau,  and,  rounding  at  last  a  gigantic 
boulder,  burst  into  Nazareth. 

A  mere  village  in  the  time  of  Christ,  Nazareth  covers  to-day  the 
bowl-shaped  valley  in  which  it  is  built  to  the  summits  of  the  surround- 
ing hills  and,  viewed  from  a  distance,  takes  on  the  form  of  an  almost 
perfect  amphitheatre.  In  the  arena  of  the  circus,  a  teeming,  babbling 
bazaar,  I  endeavored  in  vain  to  find  the  dentist  Kawar  to  whom  my  let- 
ter was  addressed.  When  my  legs  grew  aweary  of  wandering  through 
the  labyrinth  and  my  tongue  refused  longer  to  deform  itself  in  attempts 
to  reproduce  the  peculiar  sounds  of  the  Arabic  language,  I  sat  down  on 
a  convenient  and  conspicuous  bazaar  stand,  rolled  a  cigarette,  and 
leaned  back  in  the  perfect  contentment  of  knowing  that  I  should 
presently  be  taken  care  of.  Near  me  on  all  sides  rose  a  whisper,  in 
the  hoarse  voice  of  squatting  shopkeepers,  in  the  treble  of  passing 
children  under  heavy  burdens,  a  whisper  that  seemed  to  grow  into  a 
thing  animate  and  hurried  away  through  the  long  rows  and  intricate 
by-ways  of  the  market  as  no  really  living  thing  of  the  Orient  ever  does 
hurry,  crying :  "  Faranchee !  Fee  wahed  faranchee !  "  Before  my 
first  cigarette  was  well  lighted  an  awe-struck  urchin  paused  nearby  to 
stare  unqualifiedly,  with  the  manner  of  one  ready  to  take  to  terror- 
stricken  flight  at  the  first  inkling  of  a  hostile  move  on  the  part  of  this 
strange  being,  in  dress  so  ludicrous,  and  whose  legs  were  clothed  in 
separate  garments!  Here,  surely,  was  one  of  those  dread  boogiemen 
who  are  known  to  dine  on  small  Arabs,  and  so  near  that  —  perhaps  he 
had  better  edge  away  and  take  to  his  heels  before  —  but  no,  here  are  a 
dozen  men  of  familiar  mien  collecting  in  a  semicircle  back  of  him! 
And  there  comes  his  uncle,  the  camel  driver.  Perhaps  the  boogieman 
is  not  ferocious  after  all,  for  the  men  crowd  close  around,  calling 
him  "  faranchee  "  and  "  efendee,"  and  appearing  not  in  the  least  afraid. 

The  camel-driver  is  doubly  courageous  —  who  would  not  be  proud 


158       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

to  be  his  nephew? — for  he  actually  addresses  himself  to  the  strange 
being,  while  the  throng  behind  him  grows  and  grows. 

"  Barhaba !  "  says  the  camel-driver,  in  greeting,  "  Lailtak  saeedee  I 
Where  does  the  efendee  hail  from?    Italiano,  perhaps?" 

"  No,  American." 

"  Amerikhano ! "  The  word  runs  from  mouth  to  mouth  and  the 
faces  of  all  hearers  light  up  with  interest.  "America?  Why,  that 
is  where  Abdul  el  Kassab,  the  butcher,  went,  long  years  ago.  It  is  said 
to  be  far  away,  further  than  "  El  Gkudis  "  (Jerusalem)  or  "  Shaam  " 
(Damascus).  But  the  camel  driver  has  derived  another  bit  of  in- 
formation. Listen !  "  Bahree !  The  faranchee  is  a  bahree,  a  sailor, 
a  man  who  works  on  the  great  water,  the  '  bahr '  that  anyone  can  see 
from  the  top  of  Jebel  es  Sihk  above,  and  on  the  shores  of  which  this 
same  camel  driver  claims  to  have  been.  It  is  even  rumored  that  to 
reach  this  America  of  the  faranchee  and  of  Abdul  el  Kassab,  one  must 
travel  on  the  great  water !  Indeed,  'tis  far  away,  and,  were  the  faran- 
chee not  a  bahree,  how  could  he  have  journeyed  from  far-off  America 
to  this  very  Nazra?" 

But  my  Arabic  was  soon  exhausted  and  the  simple  Nazarenes,  to 
whom  a  man  unable  to  express  himself  in  their  vernacular  was  as 
much  to  be  pitied  as  a  deaf-mute,  burst  forth  in  sympathetic  cries  of 
"meskeen"  (poor  devil).  The  camel  driver,  striving  to  gain  further 
information,  was  rapidly  becoming  the  butt  of  the  bystanders,  when 
a  native,  in  more  festive  dress,  pushed  through  the  throng  and  ad- 
dressed me  in  English.     I  held  up  the  letter. 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  "  the  dentist  Kawar  ?  "  and  he  snatched  the  note  out 
of  my  hand  and  tore  it  open. 

"  But,  here,"  I  cried,  "  are  you  the  dentist  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,"  said  the  native,  without  looking  up  from  the 
reading. 

"Then  what  right  have  you  to  open  that  letter?"  I  demanded, 
grasping  it. 

The  native  gazed  at  me  a  moment,  the  picture  of  Innocence  Accused 
and  astonished  at  the  accusation. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  the  Kawar  is  my  friend.  If  it  is  my  friend's 
letter,  it  is  my  letter.  If  it  is  my  letter,  it  is  my  friend's  letter.  Arabs 
make  like  that,  sir.  I  am  Elias  Awad,  cook  to  the  British  missionary 
and  friend  to  the  dentist.  Very  nice  man,  but  gone  to  Acre.  But 
Kawar  family  live  close  here.     Please,  you,  sir,  come  with  me." 

Ten  minutes  later  I  had  been  received  by  the  family  Kawar  like 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  159 

a  long-lost  friend.  One  glimpse  of  their  dwelling  showed  them  to  be 
people  of  Nazarene  wealth  and  position.  The  head  of  the  house, 
keeper  of  a  dry-goods  store,  had  once  been  sheik  or  mayor  of  Naz- 
areth and  was  a  man  of  extreme  courtesy.  He  spoke  only  Arabic. 
His  sons,  ranging  from  bearded  men  to  a  boy  of  nine,  had  been  impar- 
tially distributed  among  the  mission  schools  of  the  town.  Two  spoke 
English  and  one  German  and  were  stout  champions  of  the  Protestant 
faith.  The  fourth  and  fifth  spoke  French  and  Italian,  respectively, 
and  posed  as  devout  Catholics.  The  youngest,  already  well  versed  in 
Russian,  clung  to  the  faith  of  his  father,  the  orthodox  Greek.  Amid 
the  bombardment  of  questions  in  four  languages  I  found  a  moment, 
here  and  there,  to  congratulate  myself  on  my  ignorance  of  the  tongue 
of  the  Cossacks. 

While  the  evening  meal  was  preparing,  the  cosmopolitan  family,  a 
small  army  in  assorted  sizes,  sallied  forth  to  show  me  the  regulation 
"  sights."  With  deep  reverence  for  every  spot  reminiscent  of  Jesus, 
they  pointed  out  Mary's  Well,  the  Greek  church  over  the  supplying 
spring,  the  workshop  of  Joseph,  and  many  a  less  authentic  relic;  and, 
utterly  oblivious  of  the  incongruity,  halted  on  the  way  back  to  cry: 
"  This,  sir,  is  the  house  of  the  only  Jew,  thank  God,  who  still  dwells  in 
Nazareth !  " 

Supper  over,  the  Protestants  dragged  me  away  to  a  little  church  on 
the  brow  of  the  valley.  The  service,  though  conducted  in  Arabic,  was 
Presbyterian  even  to  the  tunes  of  the  hymns;  the  worship  quite  the 
antithesis.  For  the  men  displayed  the  latest  creations  in  fezes  in  the 
front  pews,  and  the  women,  in  uniform  white  gowns,  sat  with  bated 
breath  on  the  rear  benches.  Now  and  then  a  communicant  kicked  off 
his  loose  slippers  and  folded  his  legs  in  his  seat ;  and  the  most  devout 
could  not  suppress  entirely  a  desire  to  stare  at  a  faranchee  who  sat 
bareheaded  in  church !  After  the  benediction  the  ladies  modestly 
hurried  home,  but  not  one  of  the  males  was  missing  from  the  throng 
that  greeted  our  exit.  To  these  my  companions  hastened  to  divulge 
my  qualities,  history,  and  raison  d'etre,  as  exactly  as  some  information 
and  an  untrammeled  imagination  permitted.  Among  the  hearers  were 
two  young  men,  by  name  Shukry  Nasr  and  Nehme  Siman,  teachers 
of  English  in  the  mission  school,  who,  eager  for  conversational  practice 
and  touched  with  the  curiosity  of  the  Arab,  refused  to  leave  until  I 
had  promised  to  be  their  guest  after  my  stay  with  the  Kawars  was 
ended. 

The  next  day  was  one  long  lesson  on  the  customs  and  traits  of  the 


i6o       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

better-class  Arab.  Shiikry  Nasr  and  Nehme  Siman  called  early  and 
led  me  away  to  visit  their  friend,  Elias,  the  cook.  On  the  way  I  pro- 
tested against  their  refusal  to  allow  me  to  spend  a  single  metleek  even 
for  tobacco.  "  You  are  our  guest,  sir,"  said  Nehme ;  "  we  are  very 
glad  to  have  you  for  a  guest  and  to  talk  English.  But  even  if  we  did 
not  like,  we  should  take  good  care  of  you,  for  Christ  said,  *  Thou  shalt 
house  the  stranger  who  is  within  thy  gates.'  " 

"  Why,"  cried  the  cook,  when  our  discussion  had  been  carried  into 
his  room  in  the  mission,  "  in  the  days  of  my  father,  for  a  stranger  to 
pay  a  place  to  live  would  have  been  insult  to  all.  A  stranger  in  town ! 
Why,  Let  my  house  be  his  —  and  mine!  —  and  mine!  would  have 
shouted  every  honorable  citizen !  " 

'*  But  Nazareth  is  getting  bad,"  sighed  Shukry.  *'  The  faranchees 
who  are  coming  are  very  proud.  They  will  not  eat  our  food  and  sleep 
in  our  small  houses.  And  so  many  are  coming!  So  some  inns  have 
been  built  and  even  the  Italian  monastery  like  to  have  pay.  Very 
disgraceful !  " 

*' Did  you  give  any  policemen  a  nice  whipping?"  asked  Elias,  sud- 
denly. 

"Eh?  "I  cried. 

"  If  a  faranchee  comes  to  our  country,"  he  explained,  "or  if  we  go 
to  live  in  America  and  come  back,  the  policeman  cannot  arrest." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  answered. 

"  If  a  policeman  touches  you,  then,  you  must  give  him  a  nice  whip- 
ping," continued  the  cook.  "If  my  father  had  been  to  America  I 
would  give  nice  whippings  every  day.  Many  friends  I  have — "  and 
he  launched  forth  into  a  series  of  anecdotes  the  heroes  of  which  had 
returned  with  naturalization  papers  for  the  sole  purpose,  evidently,  of 
making  life  unendurable  for  the  officers  of  the  Sultan. 

"  If  they  only  refuse  to  obey  the  soldiers,"  said  Nehme,  "  that  is  noth- 
ing. Everybody  does  that.  But  here  is  the  wonderful!  They  do 
not  have  even  to  give  backsheesh !  " 

"  Do  you  have  backsheesh  in  America  ?  "  demanded  Shukry.  | 

"  Ah  —  er  —  well  —  the  name  is  not  in  common  use,"  I  stammered. 

"  It  is  in  my  town  of  Acre  that  the  backsheesh  is  nice,"  cried  the 
cook,  proudly,  "and  the  nicest  smuggling.  Have  you  seen  that  big, 
strong  gate  to  my  town,  sir?  Ah,  sir,  many  nice  smugglings  go  in 
there.  But  how  you  think  ?  " —  he  winked  one  eye  long  and  solemnly  — 
"  The  nice  smugglings  are  the  ladies.  Many  things  the  lady  can  carry 
under  her  long  dress." 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  i6i 

"  But  there  are  the  guards,"  I  put  in. 

"  The  guards?  Quick  the  guard  get  dead  if  he  put  the  finger  on  the 
lady." 

"  Then  why  not  have  a  woman  guard  ? "  I  suggested. 

"  Aah !  "  cried  the  cook.     "  How  nasty !  " 

"  But  the  man,"  he  went  on,  sadly,  "  must  pay  backsheesh  if  he 
smuggle  a  pound  of  arabee  (native  tobacco,  so-called  in  distinction 
from  "  Stambouli,"  the  revenued  weed)  or  if  he  make  a  man  dead." 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  "  Backsheesh  for  murder  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  apologized  the  cook,  "  if  the  man  that  makes 
dead  has  no  money,  he  is  made  dead  by  the  soldiers  — " 

" '  Kill '  is  the  English  word,  Elias,"  put  in  Nehme. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  continued  Elias,  "  if  the  man  that  kills  has  money,  the 
officer  sends  a  soldier  after  him.  The  man  puts  his  head  through  his 
door  and  drops  some  mejeediehs  in  the  soldier's  hand.  Then  the 
soldier  comes  back  and  gives  almost  all  the  mejeediehs  to  the  officer, 
and  they  decide  that  the  man  has  run  away  and  cannot  be  find.  But 
if  it  is  a  faranchee  has  been  made  —  er  —  killed,  very,  bad,  for  the 
consul  tell  the  government  to  find  the  man  and  kill  him  —  and  if  the 
man  have  not  so  much  money  that  the  government  cannot  find  —  very 
bad!" 

*'  To-morrow,"  said  Shukry,  as  I  stropped  the  razor  which  the  cook 
invited  me  to  use,  "  you  are  coming  to  live  with  me." 

"  To-morrow,"  I  answered,  "  I  go  to  the  Sea  of  Galilee." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  the  three,  in  chorus,  "  Then  we  give  you  a  letter  to  our 
good  friend,  Michael  Yakoumy.  He  is  teacher  in  Tiberias  and  he 
takes  much  pleasure  to  see  you." 

"  And  you  take  a  letter  for  my  wife,"  said  Elias.  "  She  is  nurse  in 
the  hospital.     Often  I  write  but  the  government  lose  the  letter." 

"  So  you  're  married  ?  "  I  observed,  through  the  lather. 

"  No !  no !  "  screamed  the  cook.  "  How  you  can  come  to  my  house 
if  I  am  married  ?     This  only  my  —  my  — " 

"  Fiancee,"  said  Nehme. 

**  Or  sweetheart,"  said  Shukry. 

"  Aah !  "  muttered  Elias,  "  I  know  the  word  *  sweetheart.'  But  I 
don't  like.  How  you  call  a  woman  sweet?  Every  woman  bad,  and  if 
she  live  in  Palestine  or  America,  she  cannot  be  trust  "  ;  and  Nehme  and 
Shukry,  in  all  the  wisdom  of  seventeen  years,  nodded  solemnly  in  ap- 
proval. 

"  But  your  fiancee  — "  I  began. 


i62       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  All  the  same,"  said  the  cook,  ''  but  every  man  shall  get  married  — 
Look  out,  sir,  you  are  cutting  your  moustaches !  " 

"Why  not?"  I  asked. 

"  Aah !  "  shrieked  the  cook,  as  I  scraped  my  upper  lip  clean,  "  why 
faranchees  make  that?  So  soon  I  my  moustaches  would  shave,  so 
soon  would  I  cut  my  neck." 
V  There  is  a  road  that,  beginning  down  by  Mary's  Well  and  winding 
its  way  out  of  the  Nazarene  arena,  leads  to  Cana  and  the  Sea  of 
Galilee.  Nehme  and  Shukry,  however,  true  sons  of  Palestine,  utterly 
ignored  the  highway  when  they  set  out  next  morning  to  accompany  n 
to  the  first  village.  From  the  Kawar  home  they  struck  off  througti 
the  village  and  traversed  Nazareth  as  the  crow  flies,  with  total  disre- 
gard of  the  trend  of  the  streets.  Down  through  the  market,  dodging 
into  tiny  alleys,  under  vaulted  passageways,  through  spaces  where  w^e 
were  obliged  to  walk  sidewise,  they  led  the  way.  Where  a  shop  inter- 
vened, they  marched  boldly  through  it,  stepping  over  the  merchandise 
and  even  over  the  squatting  keeper,  who  returned  their  "  good 
morning  "  without  losing  a  puff  at  his  narghileh.  With  never  a  mo- 
ment of  hesitation  in  the  labyrinth  of  bazaars  nor  among  the  dwellings 
above,  they  stalked  straight  up  the  slope  of  Jebel  es  Sihk,  by  trails 
at  times  almost  perpendicular,  and  out  upon  a  well-marked  path  that 
led  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

At  the  summit  they  paused.  To  the  north  rose  the  snow-capped 
peak  of  Mt.  Hermon.  Between  the  hills,  to  the  west,  peeped  the 
sparkling  Mediterranean.  Eastward,  unbroken  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see  in  either  direction,  stretched  the  mighty  wall  of  the  trans-Jordan 
range.  The  view  embraced  a  dozen  villages,  tucked  away  in  narrow 
ravines,  clinging  to  steep  slopes,  or  lying  prone  on  sharp  ridges  like 
broken-backed  creatures.  Shukry's  enumeration  savored  of  Biblical 
lore.  There  was  Raineh,  down  in  the  throat  of  the  valley;  further 
on  Jotapta  and  Ruman ;  across  the  gorge  Sufurieh,  the  home  of  fanat- 
ical rascals  among  whom  Christians  are  outlaws.  Every  hamlet  has 
a  character  of  its  own  in  Palestine.  The  inhabitants  of  one  may  be 
honest,  industrious,  kindly  disposed  towards  any  advance  of  civiliza- 
tion ;  while  another,  five  miles  distant,  boasts  a  population  of  the  worst 
scoundrels  unhung,  bigoted,  clannish,  and  sworn  enemies  to  every  fel- 
low-being who  has  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  in  their  en- 
lightened midst.  This  diversity  of  characteristics,  so  marked  that  a 
man  from  across  the  valley  is  styled  "  foreigner,"  makes  resistance 
to  the  Turk  impossible  and  breeds  a  deadly  hatred  that  raises  even 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  163 

lo-day  that  sneering  question,  "  Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of 
Xazareth  ?  " 

The  teachers  took  their  leave  in  Raineh.  Beyond  Cana,  perched 
on  a  gentle  rise  of  ground  among  flourishing  groves  of  pomegranates, 
the  highway  wavered  and  was  lost  in  the  mire.  I  set  my  own  course 
across  a  half-inundated  plain.  Late  in  the  afternoon  the  Horns  of 
Ilutin,  adorned  by  a  solitary  shepherd  whose  flock  grazed  where  once 
the  multitude  listened  to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  rose  up  to  assure 
me  that  I  had  not  gone  astray,  and  an  hour  later  the  ground  dropped 
suddenly  away  beneath  my  feet  and  the  end  of  my  pilgrimage  lay  be- 
fore me.  Near  seven  hundred  feet  below  sea  level,  in  a  hollow  of  the 
earth  dug  by  some  gigantic  spade,  glimmered  the  blue  Sea  of  Galilee, 
already  in  deep  shadow,  though  the  sunshine  still  flooded  the  plain 
behind  me.  I  stepped  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and,  slipping, 
stumbling  from  rock  to  rock,  steering  myself  by  clutching  at  bush  and 
boulder,  fell  headlong  down  into  the  city  of  Tiberias. 

A  city  of  refuge  in  ancient  times,  Tiberias  is  to-day  one  of  the 
few  towns  of  Palestine  in  which  the  Jewish  population  preponder- 
ates. It  is  a  human  cesspool.  Greasy-locked  males  squat  in  the  door- 
ways of  its  wretched  hovels ;  hideous  females,  dressed  in  an  open 
jacket  stiff  with  filth,  which  discloses  to  the  public  gaze  their  withered, 
bag-like  breasts  and  their  bloated  abdomens,  wallow  through  the  sewer- 
age of  the  streets  in  company  with  foul  brats  infected  with  every  un- 
clean disease  from  scurvy  to  leprosy.  Dozens  of  idiots,  the  hair  eaten 
off  their  heads,  and  their  bodies  covered  with  running  sores,  roam  at 
large  and  quarrel  with  mongrel  curs  over  the  refuse.  For  these  are 
the  "  men  possessed  of  devils,"  privileged  members  of  society  in  all  the 
Orient.  An  Arab  proverb  asserts  that  the  king  of  fleas  holds  his  court 
in  Tiberias.  To  be  king  of  all  the  fleas  that  dwell  in  Palestine  is  a 
position  of  far  greater  importance  than  to  be  czar  of  all  the  Russias ; 
and  it  is  strange  that  His  Nimble  Majesty  has  not  long  ago  chosen  a 
capital  in  which  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  disinfect  his  palace  daily. 

The  home  of  Michael  Yakoumy,  from  the  windows  of  which 
stretched  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  sea  from  the  sortie  of  the  Jor- 
dan to  the  site  of  Capernaum,  was  a  model  0/  cleanliness.  Here,  in 
this  wretched  hamlet,  that  whole-hearted  descendant  of  Greek  immi- 
grants toils  year  after  year  at  a  ludicrous  wage,  striving  to  instill  some 
knowledge  and  right  living  into  the  children  of  the  surrounding  rabble. 
He  was,  all  unknowingly,  a  true  disciple  of  the  "  simple  life  "  in  its 
best  sense,  displaying  the  interest  of  a  child  in  the  commonplace  occur- 


1 64       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

rences  of  the  daily  round,  not  entirely  ignorant  of,  but  wholly  unen- 
vious  of  the  big  things  of  the  world  outside. 

I  attended  the  opening  of  his  school  next  morning  and  then  turned 
back  towards  Nazareth.  At  the  foot  of  the  precipitous  slope  a  storm 
broke  and  the  combination  of  water  and  jagged  rocks  wrought  disaster 
to  my  worn-out  shoes.  When  I  reached  sea  level  they  were  succumb- 
ing to  a  rapid  disintegration.  In  the  first  half-mile  across  the  plain 
the  heels,  the  soles,  the  uppers,  the  very  laces,  dropped  bit  by  bit 
along  the  way.  For  a  time  the  cakes  of  mud  that  clung  to  my  socks 
protected  my  feet,  but  the  socks,  too,  wore  away  and  left  me  to  plod 
on  barefooted  over  the  jagged  stones  of  the  field. 

Long  before  I  had  reached  the  mountainous  tract  about  Cana,  I  was 
suffering  from  a  dozen  cuts  and  stone-bruises ;  and  the  journey  beyond 
must  have  appealed  to  a  Hindu  ascetic  as  a  penance  by  which  to  win 
unlimited  merit.  As  for  Cana,  it  will  always  be  associated  in  my  mind 
with  that  breed  of  human  who  finds  his  pleasure  in  bear-baiting  and 
cock-fighting.  For,  as  I  attempted  to  climb  into  the  village  market, 
my  feet  refused  to  cling  to  the  slimy  hillside  and  I  skidded  and 
sprawled  into  a  slough  at  the  bottom,  amid  shrieks  of  derisive  laughter 
from  a  group  of  villagers  above. 

By  the  time  I  reached  Raineh  it  was  as  dark  as  a  pocket,  and  the  path 
over  the  Jebel  was  out  of  the  question.  The  winding  highway  pursued 
its  leisurely  course  and  led  me  into  Nazareth  at  an  hour  when  every 
shop  was  closed.  For  some  time  I  could  not  orientate  myself  and  wan- 
dered shivering  through  the  silent  bazaars,  the  cold,  dank  stones  under- 
foot sending  through  me  a  thrill  of  helplessness  such  as  Anteus  must 
have  felt  when  lifted  off  the  strength-giving  earth.  Then  a  familiar 
corner  gave  me  my  bearings,  and  I  hobbled  away  to  the  home  of  Elias. 

The  village  shoemaker,  being  summoned  next  morning,  appeared 
with  several  pairs  of  Nazarene  slippers,  heelless  and  thin  as  Indian 
moccasins ;  again  shod,  I  set  out  with  the  teachers  for  the  home  of 
Shukry.  It  was  a  simple  dwelling  of  the  better  class,  halfway  up  the 
slope  of  Jebel  es  Sihk,  and  from  its  roof  spread  out  the  bowl-shaped 
village  at  our  feet,  Mt.  Tabor,  and  the  lesser  peaks  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  recent  death  of  his  father  had  left  the  youth  to  rule  over 
the  household.  In  all  but  years  he  was  a  mature  man,  boasting  al- 
ready a  bristling  moustache,  for  humans  ripen  early  in  the  East. 

It  was  January  seventh  according  to  our  calendar,  or  Christmas 
Day  according  to  the  Russian,  a  time  of  festival  among  the  Greek 
churchmen  and  of  ceremonial  visits  among  all  Christians.     Our  shoes 


I 


THE  CITIES  OF  OLD  165 

off,  we  were  sitting  on  a  divan  when  the  guests  began  to  appear.  Each 
arrival  —  all  men,  of  course,  though  Shukry's  mother  hovered  in  the 
far  background  —  was  greeted  by  the  head  of  the  family  standing  erect 
in  the  center  of  the  room.  There  was  no  hand-shaking,  but  a  low  kow- 
tow by  guest  and  host  and  a  carelessly  mumbled  greeting.  Then  the 
visitor  slid  out  of  his  slippers,  squatted  on  the  capacious  divan,  and, 
when  all  were  firmly  seated,  the  salutation  "  naharak  saeed  "  was  ex- 
changed, this  time  being  clearly  enunciated.  If  the  newcomer  was 
a  priest,  Shukry's  small  brother  slid  forward  to  kiss  his  hand  and  re- 
tired again  into  an  obscure  corner.  These  formalities  over,  the  guest, 
priest  or  layman,  was  served  cigarettes  and  a  tiny  cup  of  coffee. 
Frankness  is  the  key  to  the  Arab  character.  The  hypocritical  smirks 
of  our  own  social  gatherings  are  not  required  of  the  Nazarene  who 
lays  claim  to  good  breeding.  If  the  visitor  was  a  friend  or  fellow- 
churchman  of  his  host  an  animated  conversation  broke  out  and,  inter- 
rupted at  brief  intervals  by  new  arrivals,  raged  long  and  vociferously. 
Those  who  professed  a  different  faith  —  the  Greek  priests  especially  — 
sipped  their  coffee  in  absolute  silence,  puffed  at  a  cigarette,  and,  with 
another  "  naharak  saeed,"  glided  into  their  slippers  and  departed. 

Later  in  the  day  I  made,  with  my  host,  the  round  of  the  Christian 
families,  deafened  with  questions  in  Protestant  homes,  suffered  to  sit 
in  painful  silence  in  Greek  dwellings,  and  undermining  my  constitution 
with  every  known  brand  of  cigarette.  Our  course  ended  at  the  Kawar 
home.  The  former  mayor,  dressed  in  latest  faranchee  garb,  with  a 
vast  expanse  of  white  vest,  sat  cross-legged  in  his  white  stocking-feet, 
a  fez  perched  on  his  head.  The  conversation  soon  turned  to  things 
American. 

"  Many  years  ago,"  translated  the  eldest  son,  on  behalf  of  his 
father,  "  I  began  to  wonder  why,  by  the  beard  of  the  prophet,  faran- 
chees  come  from  a  great,  rich  country  like  America  to  travel  in  a 
miserable  land  like  ours." 

A  long  dissertation  on  the  joys  and  advantages  of  globe-trotting  drew 
from  the  former  sheik  only  an  exclamation  of  "  M'abaraf ! "  (I  don't 
understand). 

"  An  American  who  was  in  Nazareth  long  ago,"  he  went  on,  by 
mouth  of  offspring,  "  told  me  a  strange  story.  I  did  not  believe  him, 
for  it  cannot  be  true.  He  said  that  in  America  people  buy  dogs ! " 
and  the  mere  suggestion  of  so  ludicrous  a  transaction  sent  the  assem- 
bled group  into  paroxysms  of  laughter. 

"  They  do,"  I  replied. 


i66       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

The  pompous  ex-mayor  fell  into  such  convulsions  of  merriment  that 
his  rotund  face  grew  the  color  of  burnished  copper. 

"BUY  dogs?"  roared  his  sons,  in  a  chorus  of  several  languages, 
"But  what  for?" 

Never  having  settled  that  question  entirely  to  my  own  satisfaction, 
I  parried  it  with  another :     *'  How  do  you  get  a  dog  if  you  want  one  ?  " 

"  W  —  w  —  w  —  why/'  answered  the  eldest  son,  wiping  the  tears 
from  his  eyes,  "  if  anyone  wants  a  dog  he  tells  someone  else  and  they 
give  him  one;  but  who  ever  WANTS  a  dog?" 

Once  the  guest  of  the  better-class  Arab,  the  traveler  is  almost  certain 
to  be  relayed  from  one  city  to  another  through  an  endless  chain  of  the 
friends  of  his  original  host.  I  had  announced  my  intention  of  leaving 
Nazareth  in  the  morning.  The  ex-mayor,  after  attempting  to  frighten 
me  out  of  my  project  by  the  usual  bear-stories,  wrote  me  four  letters 
of  introduction. 

"  Without  these  letters,"  he  explained,  "  you  would  not  dare  stay  in 
Gineen  or  Nablous,  for  my  friends  are  the  only  Christians  and  those 
are  very  bad  towns.  My  friends  in  Jerusalem  and  Jaffa  —  if  you 
ever  get  there  alive  —  may  be  able  to  help  you  find  work." 


.;i^^ 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   WILDS   OF   PALESTINE 

THE  sun,  rising  red  and  clear  next  morning,  put  to  rout  even 
the  protests  of  Nehme  and  Shukry  against  my  departure  on 
Sunday.  Elias  sorrowfully  said  farewell  at  the  mission 
gate.  The  teachers,  carrying  between  them  a  package  at  which  they 
cast  mysterious  glances  now  and  then,  conducted  me  to  the  foot  of 
the  Nazarene  range.  Pointing  out  a  guiding  mountain  peak  that 
rose  above  Gineen,  far  across  the  trackless  plain  of  Esdraelon,  they 
bade  me  good-by  almost  tearfully,  thrust  the  package  into  my  hands, 
and  turned  back  up  the  mountain  pass.  Half  certain  of  what  the  bun- 
dle contained,  I  did  not  open  it  until  noonday  overtook  me,  well  out  on 
the  plain.  Inside  was  a  goodly  supply  of  gkebis,  oranges,  native 
cheeses,  and  black  olives ;  and  at  the  bottom,  a  bundle  of  home-made 
cigarettes,  and  a  package  of  "  arabee,"  with  a  book  of  papers. 

Late  afternoon  brought  me  to  the  edge  of  Esdraelon.  A  veritable 
garden  spot,  covered  with  graceful  palms  and  waving  pomegranates 
and  perfumed  with  the  fragrance  of  orange  and  lemon  groves,  covered 
the  lower  slope  of  the  peak  that  had  been  my  phare.  Back  of  the 
garden  stood  the  fanatical  town  of  Gineen.  The  appearence  of  a 
defenseless  unbeliever  in  their  midst  aroused  its  inhabitants  to  scowls 
and  curses,  and  a  few  stones  from  a  group  of  youngsters  at  a 
corner  of  the  bazaar  rattled  in  the  streets  behind  me.  My  letter  was 
addressed  in  native  script.  The  squatting  shopkeeper  to  whom  I  dis- 
played it  attempted  to  scowl  me  out  of  countenance,  then,  recalling 
his  duty  of  hospitality  towards  whoever  should  enter  his  dwelling, 
called  a  passing  urchin  and,  mumbling  a  few  words  to  him,  bade  me 
follow.  The  urchin  mounted  the  sloping  market-place,  made  several 
unexpected  turnings,  and,  pointing  out  a  large  house  surrounded  by  a 
forbidding  stone  wall,  scampered  away  like  one  accustomed  to  take  no 
chances  of  future  damnation  by  lingering  at  the  entrance  to  a  Chris- 
tian hotbed. 

I  clanged  the  heavy  knocker  until  the  sound  echoed  up  and  down  the 
adjoining  streets,  and,  receiving  no  response,  sat  down  on  the  curb.     A 

167 


i68       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

well-dressed  native  wandered  by  and  I  displayed  the  letter.  He  glared 
at  it,  muttered  "  etnashar  saa  "  (twelve  o'clock,  i.  e.,  nightfall  by  Ara- 
bic reckoning)  and  continued  his  way.  From  time  to  time  visitors 
paused  at  neighboring  gates  or  house  doors  and,  standing  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  street,  lifted  up  their  voices  in  mournful  wails  that  endured 
long  enough  to  have  given  the  wailer's  pedigree  from  the  time  of 
Noah ;  and  were  finally  admitted.  Beggars  made  the  rounds,  wailing 
longer  and  more  mournfully  than  the  others,  seldom  ceasing  until 
a  few  bread-sheets  or  coppers  were  tossed  out  to  them.  Bands  of 
females,  whose  veils  may  have  covered  great  beauty  or  the  hideous 
visages  of  hags,  drew  up  in  a  circle  round  me  now  and  then  to  discuss 
my  personal  attractions,  and  to  fill  me  with  the  creepy  feeling  one 
might  experience  at  a  visit  of  the  White  Caps  or  the  Klu-Klux  Klan. 

Full  two  hours  I  had  squatted  against  the  wall  when  an  old  man, 
in  European  garb,  slowly  ascended  the  street,  mumbling  to  himself 
as  he  ran  through  his  fingers  a  string  of  yellow  beads.  He  paused 
at  the  gate  and  pulled  out  a  key.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  handed  him 
the  letter.  He  read  it  with  something  of  a  scowl  and,  motioning  to  me 
to  wait,  went  inside.  A  long  delay  followed.  At  last  the  gate  groaned 
and  gave  exit  to  the  ugliest  creature  in  the  Arab  world.  He  was  a 
youth  of  about  twenty,  as  long  as  a  day  without  bread,  and  too  thin  to 
deflect  a  ray  of  light.  His  shoulders  were  bowed  until  his  head  stuck 
out  at  right  angles  to  his  body ;  his  long,  yellow  teeth  protruded  from 
his  lips ;  in  his  one  eye  was  the  gleam  of  the  rascal ;  and  his  very  atti- 
tude stamped  him  as  one  who  hated  faranchees  with  a  deadly  hatred. 
Around  his  lank  form  hung  a  half-dozen  long,  flowing  garments  as 
from  a  hat-rack,  and  on  his  head  was  the  coiflfure  of  the  Bedouin. 

I  caught  enough  of  his  snarling  harangue  to  know  that  he  was  a 
family  domestic  ordered  to  conduct  me  to  the  servants'  quarters.  On 
the  opposite  side  of  the  long  street  he  unlocked  a  battered  door,  and 
admitted  me  to  a  hovel  furnished  with  a  moth-eaten  divan  and  a  pan  of 
dead  coals.  A  dapper  young  native  entered  soon  after  and  addressed 
me  in  fluent  French. 

"  My  family  is  in  a  sad  situation,"  he  explained ;  "  we  are  friends 
of  the  Kawar  and  so  always  the  friends  of  his  friends.  But  we  are 
the  only  Christians  in  Gineen  and  so  we  can  only  give  you  servant 
quarters."  His  train  of  reasoning  was  not  particularly  clear.  "  But 
you  must  not  stay  in  Gineen  to-night,  li  you  wait  until  to-morrow, 
you  must  go  on  alone  and  in  the  mountains  are  Bedouins  who  every 
day  catch  travelers,  and  fill  their  eyes  and  mouths  and  noses  with 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  169 

sand,  and  drag  them  around  by  a  rope,  and  cut  them  up  in  small  pieces, 
and  scatter  them  all  around!  You  must  go  to-night,  with  the  mail- 
train.     Then  you  will  be  safe." 

"  I  Ve  tramped  all  day,"  I  protested ;  "  I  '11  find  lodgings  in  the  town 
if  I  am  inconveniencing  your  family." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  shrieked  the  young  man ;  *'  there  you  would  be  cut  to 
pieces  in  an  hour!  Gineen  hates  Christians.  If  you  stop  here,  they 
will  beat  my  family  — " 

His  distress,  real  or  feigned,  was  so  acute  that  I  assented  at  last 
to  his  plan.  He  ordered  the  misshapen  servant  to  bring  me  supper, 
and  departed. 

The  living  caricature  followed  his  master  and  returned  with  a  bowl 
of  lentils  and  several  "  side  dishes."  With  him  appeared  two  com- 
panions, almost  as  unprepossessing  of  mien  as  himself ;  and  he  had  no 
sooner  placed  the  food  on  the  floor  than  all  three  squatted  around  it 
and,  clawing  with  both  hands,  made  way  with  the  meal  so  rapidly  that 
I  had  barely  time  to  snatch  a  few  mouth fuls.  When  the  last  scrap 
had  disappeared,  the  newcomers  fell  to  licking  out  the  bowls.  The 
elongated  servant  set  up  the  wailing  monotony  that  is  the  Arabic  notion 
of  a  song,  and,  swaying  back  and  forth  and  thrusting  out  his  mis- 
placed fangs  in  a  fixed  leer,  he  continued  for  an  unbroken  two  hours 
a  performance  which  the  roars  of  mirth  from  his  mates  proved  was 
no  compliment  to  faranchees. 

Towards  nine  in  the  evening  he  turned  his  fellow-rascals  into  the 
street,  and  motioning  to  me  to  take  up  my  knapsack,  dived  out  into 
the  night.  By  good  fortune  I  managed  to  keep  at  his  heels  without 
splitting  my  head  on  the  huts  among  which  he  dodged  and  doubled  in 
an  effort  to  shake  me  off  before  we  arrived  at  the  mail-train  khan. 
The  keeper  was  a  bitter  enemy  of  unbelievers  and  admitted  me  only 
under  protest,  and  with  a  steady  flow  of  vile  oaths  that  was  unchecked 
as  long  as  I  remained  in  the  building.  My  guide  deposited  his  cadaver- 
ous frame  on  a  heap  of  chaff  and  took  up  his  song  of  derision  and  his 
leering  where  he  had  left  off. 

At  the  appearance  of  the  mail  train  the  song  ceased,  and  the  singer, 
having  briefly  stated  the  desire  of  his  master,  disappeared.  The  snarls 
of  the  servant  and  the  khankeeper  had  been  friendly  greetings  com- 
pared with  those  of  the  three  drivers  of  the  mail  train.  To  all  ap- 
pearances they  were  more  to  be  feared  than  capture  by  sand-stuffing 
Bedouins ;  but  my  sponsor  was  a  man  of  higher  caste  than  mere  mule- 
teers and  would  surely  in  some  degree  hold  them  responsible  for  my 


170      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

safe  arrival  —  so  it  seemed  —  and  I  determined  to  stick  to  the  plan. 
Of  the  four  mules  that  made  up  the  train,  one  was  saddled  with  the 
mail-sacks  and,  at  a  signal  from  the  leader,  the  driver  sprang  as'  ride  the 
others.  The  khan  door  opened,  letting  in  a  cutting  draught  of  January 
air,  and  I  followed  the  party  outside,  fully  expecting  to  be  offered  a 
mount.  The  train,  however,  kept  steadily  on.  The  hindmost  Arab 
signed  to  me  to  grasp  the  crupper  of  his  mule ;  then  he  cut  the  animal 
across  the  flanks  perilously  near  my  fingers.  Only  then  did  the  truth 
burst  upon  me.  Instead  of  letting  me  ride,  as  certainly  the  Christian 
had  expected  them  to  do,  the  rascals  had  taken  this  golden  opportunity 
to  reverse  the  usual  order  of  things  Oriental.  The  true  believers  would 
'Serenely  bestride  their  animals  and  the  faranchee  might  trot  behind  like 
a  Damascus  donkey-boy.  I  fancied  I  heard  several  chuckles  of  delight, 
half-smothered  in  blatant  curses. 

The  night  was  as  black  as  a  Port  Sai'd  coaling  nigger.  In  the  first 
few  rods  I  lost  my  footing  more  than  once  and  barked  my  shins  on  a 
dozen  boulders.  The  practical  joke  of  the  Arabs,  however,  was  not 
ended.  Once  far  enough  from  the  khan  to  make  a  return  diflicult,  the 
leader  shouted  an  order,  the  three  struck  viciously  at  their  animals,  and 
with  a  rattle  of  small  stones  against  the  boulders  away  went  the  party 
at  full  gallop.  I  lost  my  grip  on  the  crupper,  broke  into  a  run  in  an 
attempt  to  keep  the  pace,  slipped  and  slid  on  the  stones,  struck  a  slope 
that  I  had  not  made  out  in  the  darkness,  and  stumbling  halfway  up  it 
on  my  hands  and  knees,  sprawled  at  full  length  over  a  boulder. 

I  sat  up  and  listened  until  the  tinkle  of  the  pack-mule's  bell  died 
away  on  the  night  air ;  then  rose  to  grope  my  way  back  to  the  khan.  It 
was  closed  and  locked.  By  some  rare  fortune  I  found  my  way  to 
the  street  in  which  the  Christian  lived  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
hovel.  The  room  was  unoccupied,  though  the  lighted  wick  of  a  tal- 
low lamp  showed  that  the  servant  had  returned.  I  spread  out  three 
of  the  four  blankets  folded  away  on  the  divan  and  lay  down.  A 
moment  later  the  walking  mizzenmast  entered,  leaped  sidewise  as 
though  he  saw  the  ghost  of  a  forgotten  victim,  and  spreading  the  re- 
maining blanket  in  the  most  distant  corner,  curled  up  with  all  his 
multifarious  garb  upon  him.  I  rose  to  blow  out  the  light,  but  the  Arab 
set  up  a  howl  of  abject  terror  that  might  have  been  heard  on  the 
northern  wall  of  Esdraelon,  and  I  desisted. 

The  route  between  Gineen  and  Nablous  was  in  strange  contrast  to 
that  of  the  day  before,  much  like  a  sudden  transition  from  Holland 
to   an   uncivilized   Tyrol.     Directly   back   of   the    fanatical   town   lay 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  171 

range  after  range  of  rocky  peaks,  half  covered  with  tangled  forests 
of  oak  and  terebinth.  A  pathway  there  was,  but  it  indicated  little 
travel,  and  broke  up  now  and  then  into  forking  trails  from  which  I 
could  only  choose  at  random.  Against  a  mountain  side,  here  and  there 
clung  a  black-hide  village  of  roving  Bedouins.  These  were  the  tribes 
which,  if  rumor  was  to  be  believed,  busied  themselves  with  corralling 
lone  Christians  and  scattering  their  remains  among  the  wooded  val- 
leys. To-day,  however,  they  were  engaged  in  a  no  more  awful  voca- 
tion than  the  tending  of  a  few  decimated  flocks  of  fat-tailed  sheep. 

Late  in  the  morning  I  came  in  sight  of  the  mud  village  of  Dothan. 
A  well-marked  path  marched  boldly  up  to  the  first  hovel,  ran  close 
along  its  wall,  swung  round  behind  the  building,  and  ended.  It 
neither  broke  up  into  small  paths  nor  led  to  an  opening  in  the  earth; 
it  merely  vanished  into  thin  air  as  if  the  hovel  were  the  station  of 
some  aerial  line.  A  score  of  giant  mongrels,  coming  down  upon  me 
from  the  hill  above,  gave  me  little  time  for  reflection.  Luckily  — 
for  my  clothing,  at  least  —  there  lay  within  reach  a  long-handled 
kettle  such  as  natives  use  in  boiling  lentils;  and  half  the  mangy  pop- 
ulation of  the  village,  tumbling  down  the  slope  to  gaze  upon  the 
unprecedented  sight  of  a  lone  faranchee  in  their  midst,  beheld  him  lay- 
ing about  him  right  merrily.  Not  one  of  the  villagers  made  the  least 
attempt  to  call  off  the  curs.  It  was  the  usual  Arab  case  of  every 
man's  dog  no  man's  dog. 

The  village  above  was  a  crowded  collection  of  dwellings  of  the 
same  design  as  those  of  the  Esquimaux,  with  mud  substituted  for 
snow,  perched  on  a  succession  of  rock  ledges  that  rose  one  above  the 
other.  The  human  mongrels  inside  them  answered  my  inquiries  with 
snarls  and  curses,  one  old  hag  exerting  herself  to  the  extent  of  ris- 
ing to  spit  at  me  through  her  toothless  gums.  Wherever  a  narrow 
passageway  gave  suggestion  of  a  trail  I  scrambled  up  the  jagged  faces 
of  the  rock  ledges  in  an  effort  to  find  the  route.  As  well  might  a  land- 
lubber have  attempted  to  pick  out  the  fore-royal  halyards.  Regularly 
I  brought  up  in  back  yards  where  several  human  kennels  choked  the 
ground  with  their  sewerage  and  the  air  with  their  smoke,  and  the  re- 
ward of  every  scramble  was  several  gashes  in  my  hands  and  volleys 
of  curses  from  the  disturbed  householders. 

I  caught  sight  at  length  of  a  peasant  astride  an  ass,  tacking  back  and 
forth  through  the  town,  but  mounting  steadily  higher.  Shadowing 
him,  I  came  out  upon  an  uninhabited  ledge  above.  The  precipitous 
path  beyond  was  but  a  forerunner  of  the  entire  day's  journey.     Over 


172       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  range  I  overtook  the  peasant,  and  not  far  beyond  a  horseman  burst 
out  of  a  tributary  cut  and  joined  us.  The  peasant  carried  a  cudgel 
and  a  long,  blunt  knife,  and  seemed  quite  anxious  to  keep  both  in 
a  position  that  would  attract  attention.  The  horseman,  in  half-civilian, 
half-military  trappings,  carried  two  pistols  and  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  a 
sword  at  his  side,  and  a  long,  slim  gun  across  his  shoulders.  The 
countryman  offered  me  a  mount,  but,  as  his  beast  was  scarcely  my 
equal  in  weight,  I  contented  myself  with  trudging  at  the  heels  of  the 
animals. 

About  noon,  in  a  narrow  plateau,  we  came  upon  an  open  well  from 
which  a  party  of  Bedouins,  that  I  should  not  have  chosen  to  meet 
alone,  scattered  at  sight  of  the  officer.  My  companions  tethered 
their  animals  on  the  lip  of  grass  and  drew  out  their  dinners.  The 
officer  knelt  beside  the  well  with  a  pot;  but  the  water  was  out  of 
reach  of  his  corpulent  and  much-garbed  form,  and  the  peasant  being 
of  the  Tom  Thumb  variety,  I  won  the  eloquent  gratitude  of  both  by 
coming  to  the  rescue.  Vainly  I  struggled  to  do  away  with  the  food 
that  was  thrust  upon  me  from  either  side.  The  officer  was,  evidently, 
a  man  of  wide  experience  and  savoir-faire.  Not  only  did  he  display 
no  great  astonishment  at  the  faranchee  manner  of  eating,  but  he  owned 
a  mysterious  machine  that  filled  the  peasant  with  speechless  awe. 
The  mystery  was  none  other  than  an  alcohol  lamp!  Not  until  the 
coffee  was  prepared  could  the  countryman  be  enticed  within  ten  feet 
of  it.  But  once  having  summoned  up  courage  to  touch  the  apparatus, 
he  fell  upon  it  like  a  child  upon  a  mechanical  toy  and  examined  its 
inner  workings  so  thoroughly  that  the  officer  spent  a  half -hour  in  fit- 
ting it  together  again. 

During  the  afternoon  the  peasant  turned  aside  to  his  village/ 
and  not  far  beyond,  the  horseman  lost  his  way.  I  could  not  but 
speculate  on  the  small  chance  I  should  have  had  alone  on  a  route 
which  eluded  a  native  well  acquainted  with  the  country.  We  had  fol- 
lowed for  some  distance  a  wild  gorge  which,  ending  abruptly,  offered 
us  on  one  side  an  impassable  jungle  of  rocks  and  trees,  and  on  the 
other  a  precipitous  slope  covered  for  hundreds  of  feet  above  with 
loose  shale  and  rubble.  The  officer  dismounted  and  squatted  con- 
tentedly on  his  haunches.  In  the  course  of  an  hour,  during  which  my 
companion  had  not  once  moved  except  to  roll  several  cigarettes,  a  be- 
draggled fellah  approached  and  replied  to  the  officer's  question  by 
pointing  up  the  unwooded  slope.  Three  times  the  horse  essayed  the 
climb,  only  to  slide  helplessly  to  the  bottom.     The  Arab  handed  me  his 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  173 

gun  and,  dismounting,  sought  to  lead  the  steed  up  the  slope  by  tacking 
back  and  forth  across  it.  Several  times  the  animal  fell  on  its  haunches 
and  tobogganed  down  the  hill,  dragging  the  cavalryman  after  him. 
The  gun  soon  weighed  me  down  like  a  cannon;  but  we  reached  the 
summit  at  last,  and  were  glad  to  stretch  ourselves  out  on  the  solid 
rock  surface  of  the  wind-swept  peak. 

The  officer  spread  out  food  between  us.  To  the  southward  lay  a 
panorama  that  rivaled  the  prospect  from  the  summit  of  Jebel  es  Sihk. 
Two  ranges  of  haggard  mountains,  every  broken  peak  as  distinct  in 
individuality  as  though  each  were  fearful  of  being  charged  with  im- 
itation of  its  fellows,  raced  side  by  side  to  the  southeast.  Between 
them  lay  a  wild  tangle  of  rocks  and  small  forests  through  which  a 
swift  stream  fought  its  way,  deflected  far  to  the  southward  in  its 
struggle  towards  the  Mediterranean  by  the  rounded  base  of  the 
mountain  beneath  us.  Over  all  the  scene  hovered  utter  desolation 
and  solitude,  as  of  an  undiscovered  world  innumerable  leagues  distant 
from  any  human  habitation. 

For  an  hour  we  followed  the  trend  of  the  stream  far  below, 
rounding  several  peaks  and  gradually  descending.  The  path  became  a 
bit  more  distinct;  but  our  surroundings  lost  none  of  their  savage 
aspect,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  appeared  neither  man, 
beast,  nor  fowl.  Suddenly  the  cavalryman,  rounding  a  jutting  boulder 
before  me,  reined  in  his  horse  with  an  excited  jerk,  and,  grasping 
his  sword,  pointed  with  the  scabbard  across  the  valley.  "  Nablous !  " 
he  shouted.  I  hastened  to  his  side.  On  a  small  plateau  far  below  us, 
and  moated  by  the  rushing  stream,  in  a  setting  of  haggard  wilderness, 
stood  a  city,  a  real  city,  with  street  after  street  of  closely  packed 
stone  buildings  of  very  modern  architecture.  Like  a  regiment  drawn 
up  in  close  ranks,  the  houses  presented  on  four  sides  an  unwavering 
line;  inside  there  was  not  an  open  space,  outside  hardly  a  shepherd's 
shelter. 

We  wound  down  the  mountain  path  to  an  ancient  stone  bridge  that 
led  directly  into  the  city.  A  squad  of  those  ragged,  half-starved 
soldiers  indigenous  to  the  Turkish  empire  would  have  stopped  me 
at  the  gate  but  for  my  companion,  who,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  drove 
them  off.  Without  prelude  we  plunged  into  the  seething  life  of  the 
bazaars.  The  streets  were  as  narrow,  as  intricate,  and  as  numerous  as 
those  of  Damascus;  but  their  novelty  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were 
nearly  everywhere  vaulted  over,  and  one  had  the  sensation  of  stroll- 
ing through  a  crowded  subway  from  which  rails  and  cars  were  lack- 


174       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ing.  The  shoes  of  the  horse  rang  sharp  and  metallic  against  the 
cobblestones  as  the  animal  plowed  his  way  through  the  jabbering  mul- 
titude, and  by  keeping  close  at  his  heels,  I  escaped  the  returning 
waves  of  humanity  that  rebounded  from  the  unbroken  line  of  shops 
on  either  side  of  the  narrow  passages  to  fill  our  wake.  The  cavalry- 
man dismounted  before  a  shop  that  minutely  resembled  its  neighbors, 
handed  the  reins  to  a  keeper  who  advanced  to  meet  him,  and  urgently 
invited  me  to  spend  the  night  in  the  inn  above.  My  Nazarene  friends, 
however,  had  intrusted  me  with  personal  epistles,  which  I  felt  in  duty 
bound  to  deliver. 

The  addressee  was  one  Iskander  Saaba,  a  Nazarene  school  teacher. 
His  house  was  not  nearly  so  easily  found  as  the  proof  that  the  in- 
habitants of  Nablous  were  fanatical,  unreasonable  haters  of  Christians. 
In  the  cities  of  Asia  Minor  the  streets  are  neither  named  nor  the 
houses  numbered.  Mr.  Smith,  you  learn,  lives  near  the  house  of  Mr. 
Jones.  If  you  pursue  the  investigation  further  you  may  gather  the 
information  that  Mr.  Jones  lives  not  far  from  the  house  of  Mr. 
Smith,  and  all  the  raving  of  western  impatience  will  not  gain  you 
more.  A  few  yards  from  the  inn  a  water  carrier  and  a  baker's  boy 
struck  me  simultaneously  in  the  ribs  with  their  respective  burdens. 
A  wayward  donkey,  bestrided  by  a  leering  wretch,  ran  me  down.  A 
tradesman  carrying  a  heavy  beam  turned  a  corner  just  in  time  to  give 
me  a  distinct  view  of  a  starry  firmament  in  a  vaulted  passageway. 
These  things,  of  course,  were  purely  accidental.  But  when  three  stout 
rascals  grasped  the  knapsack  across  my  shoulders  and  clung  to  it  until 
I  had  kicked  one  of  them  into  a  neighboring  shop,  and  a  corner  street 
vendor  wentjDUt  of  his  way  to  step  on  my  heels,  I  could  not  so  readily 
excuse  them.  As  long  as  I  remained  in  the  teeming  bazaars  these 
sneaking  injuries  continued.  Wherever  I  stopped  a  crowd  quickly 
gathered  and  showed  their  enmity  openly  by  jostling  against  me,  by 
reviling  the  whole  faranchee  race,  and  even  by  spitting  on  my  nether 
garments. 

In  a  residential  district  my  inquiries  were  answered  at  last,  and 
I  was  soon  welcomed  with  true  Arabian  hospitality  by  Iskander 
Saaba.  A  most  pleasant  evening  I  spent  in  the  dwelling  of  the  youth- 
ful teacher,  a  cosy  house  adjoining  the  mission  school,  the  windows  of 
which  looked  down  on  the  roaring  river  far  beneath.  The  family  and 
a  white-haired  native,  whom  Saaba  introduced  as  "  my  assistance  in 
the  school,"  plied  me  with  questions  ranging  from  the  age  of  my 
grandfather  to  the  income  of  my  various  cousins,  and"  gasped  when  I 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  175 

pleaded  ignorance.  But  these  things  were  but  harmless  examples  of 
the  frankness  of  the  Arab,  at  which  only  an  underfed  mortal  could 
have  taken  offense. 

A  steady  rain  was  falling  next  morning  and  my  host  awoke  me 
with  the  old  saw  — "  To-morrow  is  just  as  good  a  day  as  to-day."  When 
I  had  convinced  him  that  this  was  not  an  Occidental  proverb,  he  set 
out  to  pilot  me  through  the  city.  On  the  way  he  paused  often  to  pur- 
chase food  or  tobacco,  with  which  he  stuffed  my  knapsack  in  spite 
of  my  protests,  answering  always :  "  It  is  far  to  Jerusalem,  and  some 
day  I  will  come  to  America."  All  in  all,  he  did  not  spend  twenty- 
five  cents ;  but  I  was  well  nigh  staggering  under  my  load  when  I  took 
leave  of  him  at  the  southern  gate  of  the  city  and  struck  ofif  across  the 
oblong  plateau  shielded  by  Mt.  Ebal  and  Mt  Gerizim.  Since  the 
day  when  it  was  called  Shechem,  a  city  of  refuge,  Nablous  has 
carried  on  much  traffic  with  Jerusalem,  and  in  recent  years  the 
pusillanimous  Turk  has  set  himself  to  the  task  of  building  a  con- 
necting highway.  The  section  beyond  the  southern  gate  promised 
well;  but  in  this  rainy  season  it  was  a  river  of  mud  which  clung  to 
my  shoes  in  great  cakes  and  made  progress  more  difficult  than  in  the 
trackless  mountains  to  the  north. 

The  highway  ended  abruptly  at  noonday,  as  I  had  been  warned  it 
would.  "  It  is  all  complete,"  Shukry  had  said,  "  except  over  the 
mountain,  the  highest  mountain  in  Palestine,  and  over  that  it  runs 
not."  The  barrier  must,  indeed,  have  been  a  problem  to  the  engineers, 
for  it  towered  hundreds  of  feet  above,  as  nearly  perpendicular  as 
nature  is  wont  to  construct  her  works.  Diagonally  up  the  face  of  the 
cliff  a  path  was  cut,  but  no  spiral  stairway,  compressed  within  a 
slender  tower,  ever  offered  more  difficult  ascent.  At  the  summit  I 
came  again  upon  the  road,  as  wide,  as  finely  ballasted,  as  well 
engineered,  as  the  most  exacting  traveler  could  have  demanded;  yet, 
as  it  stood,  utterly  useless.  It  had  been  built  that  carriages  might  pass 
from  Nablous  to  the  Holy  City;  but  no  wheeled  vehicle  in  existence 
could  have  been  dragged  up  that  wall-like  hillside ;  and  the  sure-footed 
ass,  who  still  carries  on  the  traffic  between  the  two  cities,  would  make 
the  journey  exactly  as  well  had  the  highway  never  been  proposed. 
One  could  read  in  that  road  the  character  of  the  power  that  holds 
Palestine,  and  fancy  its  builders,  like  the  highway,  wandering  irreso- 
lutely from  east  to  west  and  west  to  east,  and  halting  at  the  highest 
point  to  peer  helplessly  over  the  dizzy  edge  upon  the  section  below. 

Long  after  nightfall  I  stumbled  upon  an  isolated  shop,  occupied 


176      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

by  the  keeper  and  an  errant  salesman  of  tobacco.  The  building  was  no 
more  than  a  wooden  frame  covered  over  with  sheet  iron ;  and  the  rain, 
that  began  soon  after  I  turned  in  with  the  drummer  on  one  of  the 
shelves  that  served  as  bunks,  thundered  on  the  roof  through  the  night 
and  made  sleep  as  impossible  as  inside  the  bass  drum  at  a  Wagnerian 
performance.  In  the  morning,  a  deluge  more  violent  than  I  had  ever 
known,  held  us  prisoners ;  and,  the  weather  being  bitterly  cold,  I  kept 
to  my  shelf  and  listened  to  the  roaring  of  the  tin  shack  through  the 
longest  day  that  ever  rained  and  blew  itself  into  the  past  tense. 

The  storm  had  abated  somewhat  when  I  set  out  again  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  One  stone  village  broke  the  dreary  prospect ;  the  ancient 
Bethel,  beyond  the  sharp  hills  of  which  the  highway  side-stepped  to  the 
eastward.  The  rain  of  the  preceding  days  had,  no  doubt,  left  the 
peculiar  atmosphere  of  Palestine  unusually  humid.  In  no  other  way 
can  I  account  for  the  strange  vision  that  appeared  late  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  hills  ahead  were  somewhat  indistinct,  in  the  valleys  lay  a 
thick,  gray  mist,  while  overhead,  the  sky  was  dull  and  leaden.  Before 
me,  well  above  the  horizon,  hung  a  long  dark  cloud  which,  as  I  looked, 
took  on  gradually  the  faint  shape  of  a  distant  line  of  buildings.  It 
could  have  been  no  more  than  a  mirage,  for  beneath  it  was  a  consid- 
erable strip  of  sky;  yet  it  grew  plainer  and  plainer  until  there  rode 
in  the  heavens,  like  the  army  in  that  weird  painting  of  the  soldier's 
dream,  a  dull,  gray  city,  a  long  city,  bounded  at  one  end  by  a  great 
tower,  at  the  other  shading  off  into  nothing.  Then  suddenly  it  van- 
ished. Black  clouds,  hurrying  westward  from  across  Jordan,  wiped 
out  the  vision  as  one  erases  a  lightly  penciled  line.  Yet  the  image  was 
Jerusalem.  Miles  beyond,  the  fog  lifted  and  showed  the  city  plainly, 
and  it  was  that  same  long  city  bounded  on  the  eastward  by  a  great 
tower,  but  with  solid  footing  now  on  a  dull,  drear  hill  that  sloped  to 
the  west.  The  highway  led  downward  across  bleak  fields,  past  the 
reputed  Tombs  of  the  Kings  and  Judges,  to-day  the  refuges  of  shiver- 
ing shepherd  boys,  and  through  the  Damascus  gate  into  the  crowded 
bazaars  of  the  Holy  City. 

A  howling  horde  swept  me  away  through  markets  infinitely  dirtier 
and  far  less  picturesque  than  those  of  Damascus,  up  and  down 
slimy  stone  steps,  jostling,  pushing,  trampling  upon  me  at  every  turn, 
not  maliciously,  but  from  mere  indifference  to  such  familiar  beings  as 
faranchees.  At  the  end  of  a  reeking  street  I  turned  for  refuge  to 
an  open  doorway,  through  which  I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  long 
greensward   and  a  great  mosque  with   superbly  graceful   dome.     A 


Q,  n 


-   o    S 


^  en" 


n.    3 


I 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  177 

shout  rose  from  a  rabble  of  men  and  boys  at  one  side  of  the  square. 
In  Damascus,  such  demonstrations,  bursting  forth  each  time  I  entered 
a  mosque  enclosure,  had  soon  subsided.  So  I  marched  on  with  an  air 
of  indifference.  The  shouts  redoubled.  Men  and  youths  came  down 
upon  me  from  every  direction,  howling  like  demons,  and  discharging 
a  volley  of  stones,  some  of  which  struck  me  in  the  legs,  while  others 
whistled  ominously  near  my  head.  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  Not  until 
later  in  the  day  did  I  know  the  reason  for  my  expulsion.  I  had 
trespassed  on  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  mosque  of  Omar  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Mt.  Moriah,  where  no  unbeliever  may  enter  without  an  escort 
of  bribed  soldiers. 

A  second  attempt  to  escape  the  throng  led  me  down  more  slimy 
steps  and  along  a  narrow  alley  to  a  towering  stone  wall,  where 
Hebrews,  rich  and  poor,  filthy  and  bediamonded,  alternately  kissed 
and  beat  with  their  fists  the  great  beveled  blocks  of  stone,  shrieking 
and  moaning,  with  tears  streaming  down  their  cheeks.  It  needed 
no  inquiry  to  tell  me  that  I  had  fallen  upon  the  "  Jews'  Wailing- 
Place." 

Random  wandering  brought  me  at  noonday  into  the  European  sec- 
tion about  David  street.  Light  as  had  been  my  expenditures  in 
Palestine,  my  fortunes  had  fallen.  A  sum  barely  equal  to  forty  cents 
jingled  in  my  pockets.  It  was  high  time  to  seek  employment.  With 
this  end  in  view,  I  sought  out  the  addressee  of  my  letter.  Unfortu- 
nately, his  influence  was  not  far-reaching  in  the  city,  for  he  was  a  mere 
man-of -all-work  in  a  mission  school  outside  its  walls. 

"  But  it  is  all  right,"  he  cried ;  "  if  you  are  an  American,  I  will  take 
you  to  *  the  Americans.'  " 

"  The  Americans  "  proved  to  be  a  community  of  my  countrymen  of 
Quaker  ancestry,  who  dwelt  in  a  great  modern  building  to  the  north- 
west of  the  city.  The  errand  boy  introduced  me  into  the  inner  court- 
yard, thickly  planted  in  orange  and  lemon  trees,  and  a  self-appointed 
committee  invited  me  in  to  supper.  It  seemed  almost  a  new  expe- 
rience to  sit  again  at  a  white-decked  table,  partaking  of  such  familiar 
dishes  as  roast  pork  and  rice  pudding,  with  men  and  women  of  my 
own  land  chatting  on  every  side.  An  aged  native  of  Pennsylvania, 
for  no  better  reason,  apparently,  than  that  he  had  crossed  the  Atlantic 
forty  years  before  on  the  ship  that  had  brought  me  to  Glasgow, 
espoused  my  cause  and  set  himself  to  the  task  of  supplying  me  with 
employment,  and  of  getting  me  to  heaven  as  well.  The  meal  over,  the 
colony  adjourned  to  the  parlor  on  the  second  floor  for  a  short  re- 


178       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ligious  meeting,  and  then  spent  the  evening  in  mild  merry-making. 
Several  visitors  dropped  in,  among  them  two  natives  in  faultless 
evening  attire,  a  disconcerting  contrast  to  my  own,  but  still  wearing 
their  fezes.  My  sponsor  announced  one  as  the  Superintendent  of 
Public  Instruction  and  the  other  as  the  Chief  of  Police.  Though 
they  did  not  speak  English,  neither  would  have  been  out  of  place  in 
the  most  accomplished  society. 

"  These  men,"  said  the  Pennsylvanian,  "  are  Mohammedans,  and  each 
has  several  wives.  Yet  for  years  they  have  been  welcome  guests  here, 
for  according  to  their  code  of  morals  they  are  very  moral  men.  The 
Superintendent,  there,  is  a  famous  singer."  He  was  even  then  begin- 
ning a  duet  with  one  of  the  young  ladies  at  the  piano,  and  that  with  the 
clear  tone  of  a  man  who  sait  faire. 

"The  Chief  of  Police  has  been  rather  roughly  used?"  I  suggested. 
Across  his  left  cheek  was  a  great  scar  and  his  left  eye  was  miss- 
ing. 

"  Every  Christian,"  said  the  man  beside  me,  "  should  blush  with 
shame  at  sight  of  that  scar.  Each  year,  as  you  know,  the  Christian 
pilgrims  to  Jerusalem  celebrate  feasts  and  festivals  in  the  churches 
here,  and  for  years  clashes  and  free  fights  have  frequently  broken  out 
between  followers  of  rival  creeds.  For  that  reason  the  Turks  have 
found  it  necessary  to  establish  a  guard  in  every  general  Christian 
edifice.  Two  years  ago,  at  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption  in  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  the  Greek  and  Armenian  pilgrims,  in  spite  of  the 
guards,  fell  upon  each  other.  The  Chief,  there,  a  man  of  very  peace- 
ful and  kindly  temperament,  went  among  the  combatants  and  spoke  to 
them  through  an  interpreter.  Instead  of  dispersing,  the  frenzied 
pilgrims  swept  down  upon  this  whole-hearted  Mohammedan,  and  some 
good  Christian,  of  one  side  or  the  other,  slashed  him  across  the  cheek 
with  a  heavy  knife  and  gouged  out  his  eye.  They  tell  us,  you  know, 
over  in  America  that  Mohammedans  are  savages  and  Christians  are 
civilized.  I,  too,  used  to  think  that ;  but  I  have  lived  a  long  time  in 
Jerusalem  now." 

Several  members  of  the  community,  in  business  in  David  street, 
promised  to  find  me  work.  A  round  among  them  in  the  morning, 
however,  brought  only  reiterated  promises,  and  I  wandered  away 
through  the  city.  Scores  of  Christian  pilgrims  were  engaged  in  a 
similar  occupation,  and  my  weather-beaten  and  bedraggled  appearance 
led  more  than  one  of  these  devout  nomads  to  accost  me.  I  soon  fell 
in  with  an  Italian  who  had  spent  nearly  two  years  in  making  his  way 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  179 

from  his  home  in  Urbino  to  carry  out  a  vow  made  in  an  hour  of 
distress. 

''  Why  do  you  not  go  to  a  hospice?  "  he  asked,  when  he  had  learned 
my  situation.  "  I  have  been  in  one  for  three  weeks  and  get  both  food 
and  bed.  There  is  the  Russian,  the  Greek,  the  Armenian,  the  Coptic, 
the  ItaHan,  the  French  — " 

"  But  no  American  ?  "  I  put  in,  less  eager  for  charity  than  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  life  within  these  institutions. 

"  N  —  no,"  admitted  the  pilgrim ;  "  no  American  —  but  I  '11  tell  you  ! 
Go  to  the  French  hospice.  Archbishop  Ireland  of  America  is  there 
this  week  and — " 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  pilgrim  led  the  way  through  several  narrow,  uneven  streets  and 
pointed  out  a  time-blackened  door.  A  French  servant  met  me  in  the 
anteroom  and  listened  to  my  request. 

"  Are  you  a  Catholic  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"  Wait,"  he  murmured. 

A  few  moments  later  he  returned  with  the  information  that  "  the 
reverend  father  could  admit  only  those  of  the  faith."  "  You  must 
look  to  the  Protestants,"  he  concluded. 

"  But  I  believe  there  are  no  Protestant  hospices  here  ? "  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  Ah !  It  is  true,"  cried  the  servant,  waving  his  hands  above  his 
head,  "  but  tant  pis !  You  should  be  a  Catholic  and  all  would  be 
well." 

I  turned  away  to  the  American  consulate.  If  there  was  work  to 
be  had  by  faranchees  in  the  city,  the  consul,  surely,  should  know  of  it. 
I  fought  my  way  through  a  leering  throng  of  doorkeepers  and 
kazvasses  into  the  outer  office.  While  I  waited  for  an  interview  the 
population  of  our  land  increased.  A  greasy,  groveling  Jew,  of  the 
laboring  classes,  the  love-locks  at  his  temples  untrimmed  and  unper- 
fumed,  pushed  timidly  at  the  swinging  door  several  times,  entered, 
and  bowed  and  scraped  before  the  native  secretary  to  attract  his  at- 
tention. 

"  Consul,"  he  wheezed,  holding  out  his  naturalization  papers,  "  Con- 
sul, I  vant  rregister  my  vife ;  she  got  boy." 

The  secretary  glanced  at  the  papers  and  duly  enrolled  the  new  ar- 
rival as  an  American  citizen,  with  all  the  immunities  and  privileges 
thereunto  appertaining. 


i8o       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

A  moment  later  I  was  admitted  to  the  inner  office.  The  kindly, 
white-haired  consul  asked  for  a  detailed  account  of  my  journey  in 
Palestine. 

"  I  am  often  much  exercised,"  he  said,  when  I  had  finished ;  "  I  am 
often  much  incensed  that,  with  all  the  hospices  for  every  other  brand 
of  Christian,  there  are  no  accommodations  in  Jerusalem  for  American 
pilgrims.     It  seems  like  cruel  discrimination — " 

"  But  I  am  scarcely  a  pilgrim,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,  you  are !  Yes,  you  are !  "  cried  the  consul ;  "  But  never  mind. 
I  shall  give  you  a  note  to  the  Jewish  hotel  across  the  way  and  you  may 
pay  the  bill  when  you  earn  the  money.  For  *  the  Americans '  will 
find  you  work,  you  may  be  sure.  See  me  again  before  you  leave  the 
city." 

I  mounted  an  outdoor  stairway  on  the  opposite  side  of  David 
street  to  a  very  passable  hostelry.  The  window  of  the  room  assigned 
me  offered  a  far-reaching  view.  Directly  below,  walled  by  the  backs 
of  adjoining  shops,  stenched  the  ancient  pool  of  Hezekiah.  To  the 
north,  east,  and  south  spread  a  jumble  of  small  buildings,  their  dome- 
shaped  roofs  of  mud  or  stone  thrown  into  contrast  by  a  few  houses 
covered  with  red  tiles,  the  general  level  broken  by  several  minarets 
and  the  architectural  hotch-potch  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 
At  the  further  edge  of  the  city,  yet  so  near  as  to  be  as  plainly  visible 
from  base  to  dome  as  in  the  compound  itself,  stood  the  beautiful 
mosque  of  Omar.  From  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat  beneath  rose  the 
Mount  of  Olives;  the  stone-terraced  Garden  of  Gethsemane  of  the 
lower  slope  backed  by  a  forest  of  olive  trees ;  the  summit  crowned  by 
the  three-storied  tower  on  the  "  Russian  Calvary."  Beyond,  a  desola- 
tion of  rolling  hills  stretched  away  to  the  massive  wall  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Moab. 

Descending  to  the  street  after  dinner,  I  came  upon  the  Pennsyl- 
vanian.  With  him  was  an  English  resident  who  wished  some  docu- 
ments turned  into  French.  I  began  on  them  at  once  and  worked  late 
into  the  night.  In  the  three  days  following,  I  interspersed  my  sight- 
seeing with  similar  tasks.  The  bazaars  were  half-deserted  during 
this  period ;  for  on  Friday  the  Mohammedans  held  festival,  Saturday 
and  Sunday  were  respectively  the  Jewish  and  Christian  Sabbath,  and  the 
influence  of  each  of  the  sects  on  the  other  two  was  so  marked  that 
the  entire  population  lost  energy  soon  after  the  middle  of  the  week. 
On  Saturday,  the  hotel  guests  subsisted  on  the  usual  meals  of  meat. 


i 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  i8i 

meat,  meat ;  this  time  served  cold,  for  what  orthodox  Jew  could  bid  his 
servants  build  a  fire  on  the  Sabbath?  The  day  grew  wintry  cold,  how- 
ever. The  proprietor  summoned  a  domestic,  and,  speaking  a  Yiddish 
that  closely  resembled  German,  issued  several  orders,  ending  with 
the  wholly  irrelevant  remark,  "  I  believe  this  is  one  of  the  coldest 
days  we  have  had  in  many  a  year." 

The  servant  scratched  his  moth-eaten  poll,  shuffled  off,  and  returned 
with  a  bundle  of  fagots  that  were  soon  crackling  in  the  tiny  sheet- 
iron  stove. 

Sunday  found  me  unoccupied,  and,  pushing  through  the  howling 
cliaos  at  the  Jaffa  gate,  I  strolled  southward  along  a  highway,  which 
afforded,  here  and  there,  a  glimpse  of  the  Dead  Sea.  Turning  off  at 
the  tomb  of  Rachel,  I  climbed  into  the  wind-swept  village  of  Bethle- 
hem. 

From  a  cobblestone  square  in  the  center  of  the  town,  a  low  doorway, 
flanked  by  blocks  of  unhewn  stone  so  blackened  by  the  none  too 
cleanly  hands  of  centuries  of  pilgrims  as  to  give  it  the  appearance 
of  a  huge  rat  hole,  offered  admittance  to  the  Church  of  the  Nativity. 
A  score  of  worshiping  Christians  gave  me  welcome  in  the  grotto 
of  the  manger  by  tramping  on  my  lightly-shod  toes  and  I  quickly 
retreated  to  the  cedar-groined  church  above.  At  their  altar  in 
one  section  of  the  transept  a  group  of  bejeweled  dignitaries  of  the 
Greek  church  were  celebrating  mass.  Plainly,  it  was  a  solemn  and 
holy  occasion  to  the  patriarchs  and  their  assistants.  A  small  army  of 
acolytes  hovered  round  the  priests  like  blackbirds  over  an  ear  of  corn, 
advancing  and  retreating  with  great  robes  and  surplices  of  rich 
design,  each  of  which  served  only  for  a  kow-tow  to  some  object  of 
religious  veneration.  In  the  center  of  the  transept,  a  few  feet  away 
from  the  worshiping  priests,  just  where  the  Greek  territory  meets  that 
of  some  other  sect,  stood  the  Sultan's  guard.  He  was  a  typical 
soldier  of  the  Porte,  his  uniform  of  patches  stretched  and  bagged  out 
of  all  semblance  to  modern  clothing,  his  head  covered  with  a  moth- 
eaten  fez,  its  tassel  long  since  departed  and  its  lower  edge  turned 
from  its  original  red  to  a  greasy  brown  through  long  contact  with  the 
oily  scalp  of  its  wearer.  Lazily  he  leaned  on  the  muzzle  of  the  mus- 
ket under  his  armpit,  one  dusty  foot  resting  on  the  other,  and  gazed 
with  an  unshaven  grimace,  half  of  scorn,  half  of  pity,  at  those  gullible 
beings  who  performed  their  amusing  antics  to  a  false  god.  His  relief 
arrived  soon  after.     The  scoffer  stalked  out  of  the  church,  cast  his 


i82       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

musket  on  the  cobblestones,  and  turning  an  ultrasolemn  face  towards 
Mecca,  stepped  out  of  his  shoes  and  bowed  down  in  afternoon 
prayer. 

From  the  Pools  of  Solomon,  I  returned  to  Jerusalem.  The  English 
resident  came  next  morning  with  another  document,  which  I  returned 
at  noon  and,  having  paid  my  bill,  presented  myself  at  the  consulate  to 
announce  my  departure. 

"  How  much  money  have  you  ?  "  asked  the  consul. 

"  A  ten-franc  piece." 

"  Good !  Now,  my  lad,  take  my  advice.  There  is  a  steamer  leaving 
Jaffa  for  Egypt  to-morrow.  Take  the  afternoon  train  —  ten  francs 
will  more  than  pay  your  fare  —  and  once  in  Jaffa  perhaps  you  can  get 
a  berth  on  the  steamer.  Ask  the  American  consul  there  to  give  you 
his  assistance." 

"  I  can  save  money  by  walking,"  I  ventured. 

"  Impossible !  "  cried  the  consul ;  "  It 's  forty  miles  to  Jaffa ;  the  ship 
leaves  at  noon,  and  there  is  not  another  for  ten  days.  Take  the  train. 
You  can't  walk  there  in  time." 

Just  to  prove  that  the  consul  had  underestimated  my  abilities  as  a 
pedestrian,  I  spent  half  my  wealth  for  a  roll  of  films  and  struck  out  on 
the  highway  to  the  coast.  Long  after  dark  I  usurped  lodgings  in 
Latron,  the  home  of  the  penitent  thief,  and  put  off  again  before  day- 
light, in  a  pouring  rain,  across  the  marshy  plain  of  Sharon.  It  was 
nearly  noon  when  I  reached  the  port ;  but  the  sea  was  running  moun- 
tain high  and  the  task  of  loading  the  steamer  was  proceeding  slowly. 
A  native  offered  to  pilot  me  to  the  dwelling  of  the  American  consul 
for  a  few  coppers.  Urged  on  by  an  occasional  jab  in  the  ribs,  he 
splashed  through  the  streets,  ankle-deep  in  Jaffa  soil  in  solution,  to  a 
large  hotel  that  made  great  effort  to  pose  as  an  exclusive  faranchee 
establishment.  I  dashed  into  the  office  in  a  shower  of  mud  that  raised 
a  shriek  of  horror  from  the  immaculately  attired  clerk,  and  called  for 
the  consul. 

"  Impossible !  "  cried  the  clerk ;  "  The  consul  is  at  dinner." 

Two  steps  towards  the  dining-room  convinced  him  that  my  business 
was  of  pressing  importance.  He  snatched  wildly  at  my  dripping  gar- 
ments and  sent  a  servant  to  make  known  my  errand. 

Had  the  low  comedian  of  a  Broadway  burlesque  suddenly  appeared 
in  full  regalia  amid  these  Oriental  surroundings,  I  should  have  been 
far  less  astonished  than  at  the  strange  being  who  pounced  down  upon 
me.     He  was  tall,  this  American  consul,  tall  as  any  man  who  hoped  to 


The  view  of  Jerusalem  from  my  window  in  the  Jewish  hotel 


^ 


Sellers  of  oranges  and  bread  in  Jerusalem.     Notice  Standard  Oil  can 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  183 

be  ranked  as  a  man  could  venture  to  be,  spare  of  shank  as  the  con- 
tortionist who  drives  the  envious  small  boy  to  bathe  himself  in  angle- 
worm oil  in  the  secret  recesses  of  the  barn  for  the  fortnight  succeed- 
ing circus  day  —  and  he  was  excited.  Several  other  things  he  was 
as  well  —  among  them,  a  Frenchman,  and,  despite  his  efforts,  none  but 
the  words  of  his  native  tongue  would  go  forth  from  his  lips  —  and 
that  foreign  jargon  it  was  not  my  place,  as  a  common  sailor,  to  un- 
derstand. He  stood  framed  in  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room  — 
though,  to  be  frank,  the  frame  was  a  good  six  inches  too  short,  and 
wrinkled  the  picture  sadly  —  and  between  whirlwind  gusts  of  red  hot 
Gaelic,  tore  at  his  dancing  mane. 

"  Sacre  nom  d'un  chien !  —  to  be  disturbed  entre  le  dessert  et  le 
f romage  —  by  a  sunburned,  muddy  wretch  —  and  with  a  knapsack !  — 
Un  miserable  court-le-monde,  mille  tonnerres !  —  Un  sans-sous  —  and 
these  fellows  were  always  after  money  — " 

Had  I  been  able  to  understand  him,  I  might  have  protested.  As  it 
was,  what  more  could  I  do  than  try  to  rush  a  word  across  the  track 
where  one  train  of  invectives  broke  off  and  another  began :  — 

"  Say,  mister,  be  youse  the  Amurican  consil — ?" 

But  the  words  were  mercilessly  ground  under  the  wheels ;  — 

" —  And  where  should  he  get  this  money  ?  —  Mille  diables !  —  Was  he 
a  miUionaire  because  he  was  consul  for  a  few  countries  ?  —  Un  vaga- 
bond!— Par  le —" 

"  Say,  mister,  can't  youse  talk  English?  " 

"  Anglais  —  angl  —  engl  —  Engleesh  —  certainly  he  could  parle  Eng- 
leesh !  —  But  to  be  called  from  dinner  avant  le  demi-tasse  —  An  Amer- 
ican?—  yes,  yes,  oui  —  certainment,  American  consul  —  and  to  be 
called  out  —  Sailor,  hein !  —  Aha !  Quoi  ?  —  From  Jerusa  —  Could  n't 
be  —  no  train  —  hein  ?  —  walk  ?  —  diable !  —  non !  —  impossible !  — 
Comment  ?  —  consul  in  Jerusalem  told  —  Par  le  barbe  de  —  Help  me  ? 

—  A  poor  Jaffa  consul  with  no  salary  help  a  man  sent  by  the  Jerusalem 
consul  who  drew  des  millards  de  francs !  —  le  coquin  —  Hein  ?  — 
Quoi  ?  —  My  paper  that  ?  —  A  ragged  sailor  with  a  letter  from  the  Sec- 
retary of  State?  —  Un  vagabond?  —  coming  during  dinner  —  Quoi? 

—  my  letter  ?  —  Quelle  histoire  —  what  a  lie !  —  elle  etait  volee !  —  Oui 

—  If  he  did  his  duty,  he  would  keep  it  for  the  lawful  owner  —  elle  etait 
volee  —  still,  he  would  — " 

He  certainly  would,  for  I  had  already  twisted  it  out  of  his  hands. 

"  Diable !  —  Quoi  ?  —  Write  letter  to  the  cap !  —  did  n't  know  him !  — 

ship's  agent  —  hein  ?  certainly  —  one  of  his  best  friends  —  write  letter  ? 


i84       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

—  of  course  —  but  the  din  —  and  money?  —  Hein?  —  Quoi?  —  dis 
done !  —  Pas  d'argent  ?  —  no  money  ?  —  vraiment !  —  sailor,  and  not 
want  money !  —  Sainte  Vierge  au  —  Note  ?  —  certainly  —  at  once  — 
why  had  n't  I  said  long  ago  —  No !  —  no !  —  n'importe !  —  not  the  least 
harm  done  —  wasn't  hungry  anyway  —  appetite  very  poor  —  only  a 
note?  —  pas  d'ar  —  Delighted  to  know  me  —  my  letter?  —  certainly 
it  was  my  letter  —  Never  doubted  it  for  a  moment  —  Would  I  take  a 
demi-tasse  ?  —  No  ?  —  Hurry  ?  —  of  course  —  at  once !  " —  and  he  was 
gone. 

A  moment  later  the  clerk  handed  me  an  unfolded  note  and  I  hurried 
away  to  the  wharf,  a  half-mile  distant.  The  ship  still  rode  at  anchor. 
I  rushed  to  the  wicket  and  presented  the  epistle.  Why  had  I  not  been 
warned  that  Jaffa  was  the  refuge  of  worn-out  comic  opera  stars  ?  The 
agent  who  peered  out  at  me  wore  a  glass  eye,  a  headdress  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  —  by  the  beard  of  Allah !  —  a  celluloid  nose. 

His  face  puckered  up  as  he  read  the  missive  —  all,  that  is,  except  the 
nose,  which  preserved  a  noncommital  serenity.  "  Ah !  "  he  snored, 
drawing  out  a  ticket  from  the  rack,  "  Very  well !  The  fare  is  twelve 
francs." 

"  The  fare  ?  But  does  n't  the  consul  ask  you  to  give  me  a  berth  as 
a  sailor?  " 

The  noseless  one  pushed  the  note  towards  me.  It  was  in  French, 
but  a  warning  whistle  from  the  harbor  made  me  forget  my  ignorance 
of  that  language.  The  letter  was  as  upset  in  construction  as  the  con- 
sul had  been  when  he  noted  my  name.     It  ran :  — 

Dear  Friend:  — 

The  bearer,  Harris  Frank,  is  an  American  sailor  who  wishes  to  go  to  Egypt. 
Will  you  kindly  sell  him  a  ticket  and  oblige,  your  humble,  etc.,  etc. 


American  Consular  Agent. 

A  letter  authorizing  the  company  to  sell  me  a  ticket  that  it  would 
have  been  delighted  to  sell  to  any  species  of  man  or  ape  who  had  the 
money!  It  was  as  valuable  as  a  letter  from  the  mayor  of  New  York 
would  be  in  buying  a  subway  ticket !  I  dumped  my  possessions  reck- 
lessly on  the  floor  and  sped  away  to  the  hotel  at  a  pace  that  spilled  four 
natives  in  the  mire,  by  actual  count.  The  consul  was  as  raving  as 
befbre.  He  had  just  lain  down  for  his  siesta  and  was  convinced  that 
I  had  repented  my  refusal  to  ask  for  money.  A  few  words  reassured 
him.  He  fidgeted  while  I  explained  the  desired  wording  of  the  new 
note ;  and  I  was  soon  speeding  back  to  the  owner  of  the  junk-shop  face. 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  185 

He  read  the  new  communication  after  the  leisurely  way  of  the  East, 
and  said :  — "  Well,  as  a  sailor  we  can  give  you  a  ticket  at  half-price  — 
six  francs." 

I  snatched  the  note  out  of  his  hand.  The  goblins  catch  that  scatter- 
brained consul!    He  had  unburdened  himself  as  follows:  — 

Dear  Friend  :  — 

The  bearer,  Frank  Harris,  is  an  American  sailor  without  funds  who  wishes 
to  go  to  Egypt.    Kindly  sell  him  a  ticket  as  cheaply  as  possible,  and  oblige, 

etc.,  etc.  , 

American  Consular  Agent. 

Utterly  indifferent  to  the  rain,  I  sat  down  against  a  pillar  outside  the 
office.  Four  paltry  francs  rattled  in  my  pocket.  Long,  penniless  days 
on  the  Jaffa  beach  seemed  my  promised  lot.  Stevedores  were  strug- 
gling to  breast  the  towering  waves.  Now  and  then  a  giant  comber 
overturned  a  laden  rowboat  high  on  the  beach.  Barefooted  natives 
waded  into  the  surf  with  tourists  in  their  arms.  Each  warning 
whistle  seemed  to  thrust  Egypt  further  and  further  away.     If  only  — 

I  felt  a  tap  on  the  shoulder.  A  young  native  in  the  uniform  of 
Cook  and  Son  was  bending  over  me. 

"  Go  on  board  anyway,"  he  said. 

"Eh?"  I  cried. 

"  The  captain  is  English.     If  you  are  a  sailor  he  will  give  you  work." 

"  But  I  can't  get  on  board,"  I  answered. 

For  reply,  the  native  pointed  to  the  tourist-company  boat,  laden 
with  baggage  and  mails,  at  the  edge  of  the  wharf.  I  snatched  up  my 
knapsack  and  dropped  into  the  craft. 

The  steamer  was  weighing  anchor  when  I  scrambled  up  the  gangway. 
I  fought  my  way  through  a  chaos  of  tumbled  baggage,  seasick  natives, 
and  bellowing  seamen,  and  attempted  to  mount  to  the  bridge.  A  burly 
Arab  seaman  pushed  me  back.  When  darkness  fell  on  an  open  sea  I 
had  not  yet  succeeded  in  breaking  through  the  bodyguard  that  sur- 
rounded the  captain.  Writhing  natives  covered  every  spot  on  the  open 
deck.  I  crawled  under  the  canvas  that  covered  the  winch,  converted 
my  bundle  into  a  pillow,  and  fell  asleep. 

In  what  seemed  a  half-hour  later  I  awoke  to  find  the  ship  gliding 
along  as  smoothly  as  in  a  river.  I  crawled  out  on  deck.  A  bright 
morning  sun  was  shining,  and  before  my  astonished  eyes  lay  Port  Said. 
The  ticket  collector  had  neglected  to  look  under  the  winch  for  passen- 
gers. 

The  steamer  was  held  in  quarantine  for  s'^veral  hours.    I  purchased 


i86       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

food  of  a  ship's  boy  and  settled  down  to  await  the  good  will  of  the  port 
doctors.  As  I  lined  up  with  the  rest,  to  be  thumped  and  prodded  by 
order  of  His  Majesty,  the  Khedive,  a  new  plan  flashed  through  my 
mind.  The  ship  was  to  continue  to  Alexandria.  That  port,  certainly, 
gave  far  easier  access  to  the  real  Egypt  than  Port  Said,  and  it  was 
an  unexplored  city.  Instead  of  disembarking  with  the  others,  there- 
fore, I  sought  out  the  captain  once  more  —  and  once  more  was  re- 
pulsed by  a  thick-witted  seaman. 

I  returned  to  the  deck  and  sat  down  on  a  hatch.  To  my  dismay,  the 
native  purser  began  to  collect  the  tickets  before  the  last  tender  was 
unloaded.     He  approached  me  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Where  can  I  see  the  captain  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  M'abarafshee,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head,  "  bilyeto !  "  (ticket). 

Certainly  I  must  offer  some  excuse  for  being  on  board  without  a 
ticket.  The  lean  form  of  the  purser  bending  over  me  called  up  the 
memory  of  the  Jaffa  consul.  I  rummaged  through  my  pockets,  and, 
spreading  out  his  second  note  to  the  ship's  agent,  laid  it  in  the  purser's 
hand.  The  consul's  yellow  stationery  bore  a  disconcerting  contrast 
to  the  bundle  of  dark-blue  tickets.  The  officer  gave  vent  to  his  aston- 
ishment in  an  avalanche  of  Arabic. 

"  M'abarafshee !  "  I  imitated. 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  launch  a  second  avalanche,  hesitated, 
scratched  his  head,  and,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  went  on  gather- 
ing "  bilyetos  "  from  the  native  passengers. 

Some  time  later  he  descended  from  the  upper  deck  and,  beckoning 
to  me,  led  the  way  to  the  bridge.  The  steamer  was  preparing  to  get 
under  way.  The  captain,  a  burly  Briton,  stormed  back  and  forth 
across  the  ship,  striving  to  give  orders  to  the  crew  in  such  Arabic  as 
he  could  muster,  and  bursting  the  bounds  of  that  unnatural  tongue  with 
every  fourth  word,  to  berate  the  blockheads  in  forcible  excerpts  from 
the  King's  —  private  —  English.     His  eye  fell  upon  me. 

'*  Here,"  he  roared,  profanely,  'tis  true,  but  to  the  point,  "  what  the 
bloody is  all  this  ?  "  and  he  waved  the  now  ragged  note  in  my  face. 

*'  Why,  that 's  a  note  from  the  Amurican  consil  in  Jaffa,  sir,  sayin' 
I  want  t'  ship  for  Egypt," 

The  purple  rage  on  the  skipper's  face,  the  result  of  his  attempt  to  set 
forth  in  Arabic  thoughts  only  expressible  in  English,  subsided  some- 
what at  the  sound  of  his  own  tongue. 

"  But,"  he  went  on,  in  milder  tones,  '*  this  note  asks  the  company  to 


The  Palestine  beast  of  burden  carrying  an   iron  beam   to  a  building  in  constructioi 


Jews  of  Jerusalem  in  typical  costume 


THE  WILDS  OF  PALESTINE  187 

give  you  as  cheap  a  passage  as  possible ;  and  it 's  addressed  to  the  agent, 
not  to  the  captain  of  this  ship." 

"  What,  sir !  "  I  cried,  "  Is  that  all  ?  Why,  the  consil  knowed  I 
'ad  n't  no  money,  sir." 

"  It 's  open ;  why  the  devil  did  n't  you  read  it  ?  "  retorted  the  skipper. 

"  Aye,  sir,"  I  answered,  "  but  it 's  wrote  in  some  foreign  lingo." 

**Eh?  —  er  —  well,  that's  right,"  admitted  the  commander,  with  a 
waver  of  pride  in  his  voice.  *'  It 's  written  in  French,  and  this  is  what 
it  says  " —  and  he  translated  it. 

"  Why  that  bloomin'  consil  — "  I  gasped. 

"  American  sailor,  are  you  ?  "  demanded  the  captain. 

I  handed  him  my  Sardinian  and  Warwickshire  discharges. 

"  Well,"  he  mused,  *'  if  that  note  had  been  in  English,  I  'd  — " 

"  I  'm  ready  to  turn  to  with  the  crew,  sir,"  I  put  in. 

"  N  -  no.  That  '11  be  all  right,"  said  the  skipper,  stuffing  the  note 
into  his  pocket  as  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  seamen  on  the  deck 
below.     "  Cover  that  hatch,  you  bloody  fools,  before  a  sea  fills  her !  " 

Early  the  next  morning  I  disembarked  in  Alexandria. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  loafer's   paradise 

HE  who  travels  a  force  de  bras  may  regulate  his  sight-seeing  as 
exactly  as  the  moneyed  tourist  by  clinging  to  one  fixed  plan 
—  to  fall  penniless  and  be  forced  to  seek  employment  only  in 
those  cities  with  which  he  would  become  well  acquainted.  In  all  north 
Africa  no  spot  offered  more  attractions  for  an  extended  stay  than 
Cairo.  Once  arrived  there,  whatever  the  fates  had  in  store  for  me, 
I  should  be  on  chosen  ground.  At  all  hazards  I  must  reach  Cairo 
before  I  "  went  broke." 

On  my  second  morning  in  Alexandria,  I  repaired  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion, only  to  find  that  I  had  delayed  my  departure  a  bit  too  long.  The 
third-class  fare  to  the  capital  was  low,  but,  unfortunately,  just  three 
piastres  more  than  I  possessed.  Should  I  take  train  as  far  as  possible 
and  finish  the  journey  on  foot  and  penniless,  or  should  I  save  the  money 
on  hand  for  food  en  route  and  tramp  the  entire  distance? 

Pondering  the  question,  I  dropped  into  a  bench  on  the  Place  Mo- 
hamed  Ali,  and  fell  to  whittling  a  stick.  A  countryman,  strolling  by, 
paused  to  stare,  and  sitting  down  on  the  far  end  of  the  bench,  watched 
me  intently.  Now  a  Frank  is  no  more  of  a  novelty  in  Alexandria 
than  in  Kansas  City,  even  though  in  ragged  garb;  for,  given  a  great 
port  anywhere  on  the  earth's  surface,  you  will  find  Jack  Tar,  at  least, 
rambling  penniless  and  forlorn  through  her  streets.  Either  the  native 
was  astonished  to  see  a  man  work,  even  with  his  hands,  when  he  was 
not  paid  to  do  so,  or  the  knife  had  attracted  his  attention.  Inch  by 
inch,  he  slid  along  the  bench. 

"  Very  good  knife,  kwice  cateer,"  he  murmured. 

Two  months  in  the  Arab  world  had  given  me  vocabulary  enough 
for  simple  conversations.  "  Aywa,"  I  answered,  tossing  away  the  stick 
and  closing  the  knife. 

The  fellah  gave  a  gasp  of  delight. 

"  But  it  shuts  up,  like  a  door,"  he  cried. 

I  opened  and  closed  it  several  times  for  his  edification ;  then  slid  down 
in  my  seat,  my  thoughts  elsewhere. 

i88 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  189 

"  You  sell  it?  "  grinned  the  Arab. 

"  Eh  !  "  I  gasped,  straightening  up  in  astonishment,  "  you  — " 

"  I  '11  give  you  five  piastres,"  wheedled  the  peasant,  "  gkamsa  tarifa." 

"  Take  it ! "  I  cried,  and,  grasping  the  coin  he  held  out  to  me,  I 
dashed  away  to  the  station. 

A  half-hour  later  I  was  speeding  southward  across  the  fertile  delta 
of  the  Nile.  What  a  contrast  was  this  land  to  that  I  had  so  lately 
left  behind !  Every  few  miles  the  train  halted  at  a  bustling  city ;  be- 
tween them  mound-like  fellaheen  villages  and  well-cultivated  fields 
raced  northward.  Inside  the  car  —  of  American  pattern  —  prosper- 
ous, well-groomed  natives  perused  the  latest  newspapers  and  smoked 
world-famous  cigarettes  with  the  blase  air  of  Parisian  commuters. 
Even  the  half-blind  victims  of  ophthalmia  leaned  back  in  their  seats 
in  the  perfect  contentment  of  well-fed  creatures.  An  eyeless  pre- 
adamite  in  one  corner  roared  with  laughter  at  the  sallies  of  his  com- 
panions. Far  more  at  ease  was  he,  for  all  his  affliction,  than  I,  with 
neither  friend  nor  acquaintance  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  con- 
tinent. 

The  Oriental  panorama  grew  dim.  One  could  with  difficulty  dis- 
tinguish in  this  ultra-flat  country,  where  every  object  stood  out  sharply 
against  the  horizon,  between  a  distant  ^village  and  a  reclining  water- 
buffalo,  nearer  at  hand.  The  western  sky  turned  ruddy  a  moment, 
dulled  to  a  brown,  and  the  darkness  that  falls  so  quickly  in  tropical 
countries  left  me  to  stare  at  my  own  face  beyond  the  window.  An  im- 
pressive reflection  indeed!  A  figure  to  inspire  prospective  employers 
with  confidence!  The  lights  that  were  springing  up  across  the  plain 
were  of  no  village  where  inhabitants  welcomed  strangers  with  open 
arms.  Every  click  of  the  wheels  brought  me  nearer  the  metropolis  of 
Africa,  a  great  city,  of  which  I  knew  little  more  than  the  name,  and 
where  I  should  soon  be  set  adrift  in  the  darkness  with  the  ludricrous 
sum  of  ten  cents  in  my  pocket !  Perhaps  in  all  Cairo  there  was  not  an- 
other penniless  adventurer  of  my  race?  Even  if  there  were,  and  a 
"  vagabond's  retreat  "  somewhere  among  these  long  rows  of  streets  that 
flashed  by  as  those  of  London  in  approaching  St.  Pancras,  small  chance 
had  I  of  finding  it.  For,  were  my  Arabic  as  fluent  as  my  English,  no 
policeman  could  direct  me  to  so  unconventional  a  quarter. 

The  train  halted  in  a  vast,  domed  station.  A  mighty  press  of  hu- 
manity swept  me  through  the  waiting-rooms  and  out  upon  a  brightly- 
Hghted  square.  There  the  screaming  throng  of  hackmen,  porters, 
donkey  boys,  and  hotel  runners  drove  me  to  take  refuge  behind  a  sta- 


190       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

tion  pillar.  I  swung  my  knapsack  over  my  shoulder  and  gazed,  ut- 
terly undecided,  across  the  human  sea. 

Suddenly  a  voice  sounded  above  the  roar :  — "  Heh !  Landsmann, 
wohin  ?  "  I  stared  eagerly  about  me,  for  this  simple  greeting,  properly 
accented,  is  the  password  of  the  German  tramp  wherever  he  wanders. 
Under  a  neighboring  arc-light  stood  a  young  man  of  ruddy,  sunburned 
countenance,  in  a  stout,  if  somewhat  ragged,  suit  and  a  cloth  cap.  At 
my  sign  of  recognition,  he  dived  into  the  crowd  and  fought  his  way 
to  my  side. 

"  Ah !  "  he  shouted,  in  German,  "  I  knew  only  one  of  the  boys  would 
blow  in  with  a  knapsack  and  a  corduroy  suit !  Where  are  you  turning 
up  from?  Just  got  in  from  Zagazig  myself.  Been  down  there  grub- 
bing up  some  cash.  How  long  have  you  been  away?  Business  any 
good  down  at  the  coast  ?  Don't  believe  it  is.  Cairo  's  the  place  for 
easy  winnings.  Bet  you  blew  in  without  a  piastre?  Give  'em  the 
stony  face  on  the  train?  I  did,  though  a  fellow  down  in  Zagazig 
ticketed  me.  Gave  me  the  cash,  the  wise  one,  and  of  course  I  planted 
it  and  stared  them  off." 

Had  I  not  already  served  an  apprenticeship  in  German  slang,  I 
should  have  come  off  with  a  very  indistinct  notion  of  the  recent  ac- 
tivities of  my  new  acquaintance.  I  broke  in  as  soon  as  possible  to  as- 
sure him  that  I  had  never  dared  to  hope  that  civilization  was  so  up-to- 
date  in  Egypt  that  one  could  "  beat  his  way  "  on  the  railroads,  and  to 
protest  that  I  could  doubly  deny  his  charge  of  having  "  eingeblasen  " 
without  a  piastre. 

"  It 's  my  first  trip  to  Cairo,'^  I  concluded.  "  I  bought  my  own 
ticket  — " 

"  What !  "  roared  the  German,  "  Ticketed  yourself !  Lieber  Gott, 
aber  du  bist  roh !  Tick  —  But  then,"  he  continued,  in  a  hushed  voice, 
"  now  I  think  of  it,  so  did  I !  Schafskopf ,  ja !  I  paid  good  money 
to  come  to  Cairo  the  first  time !     Hollespein,  what  a  greenhorn  I  was !  " 

As  he  talked,  we  had  left  behind  the  howling  throng.  No  need  to 
ask  where  he  was  leading  me. 

"  There  's  an  Asile  in  Cairo,"  he  put  in,  "  but  you  're  too  late  to-night. 
You  '11  meet  all  die  Kamaraden  where  we  're  going,  for  they  're  most  of 
them  ausgespielt  with  the  churchman  and  can't  talk  the  Asile  tickets 
out  of  him." 

We  crossed  a  rectangular  square  where  street  cars  clanged  their  way 
through  a  multitude,  and  turned  down  a  street  flanked  by  brightly- 
lighted  shops. 


A  winged  dahal)iyeii  oi  tiie   Nile 


Sais  or  carriage   runners  oi   Cairo,   clearing  tlie   streets   for  their  master 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  191 

"  It 's  the  Moosky,"  said  the  German.  "  Good  old  lane.  Many  a 
piastre  I  've  picked  up  in  her."  V   _ 

He  dodged  into  a  side  alley,  jogged  over  a  street,  and  entered  the"^  ^^ 
headquarters  of  "  die  Kameraden."  It  was  a  wine  shop  with  connect- 
ing kitchen,  on  the  lower  floor  of  a  four-story  building ;  just  such  a  ren- 
dezvous as  one  finds  in  Germany.  A  shuffling  Jew  was  drawing  beer 
and  wine  for  several  groups  of  noisy  faranchees  at  the  tables,  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  continual  jabber  in  Yiddish  to  which  the  tipplers  re- 
plied, now  and  then,  in  German.  A  long-unwashed  female  wandered 
in  from  the  back  room  with  a  steaming  plate  of  meat  and  potatoes. 

"  Der  Jude  has  lodgings,"  said  my  companion,  pointing  at  the  ceiling, 
"  Three  small  piastres.     You  can  still  eat  a  small  piastre  worth." 

Great  impression  two  and  a  half  cents  would  have  made  on  an  all- 
day  appetite!  Almost  before  I  reaHzed  it,  I  had  called  for  a  supper 
that  took  my  last  copper. 

By  the  time  I  finished  eating,  the  "  comrades  "  were  demanding  the 
biography  of  "  der  Ankommling."  As  all  the  party  spoke  German,  I 
gave  an  abbreviated  account  of  myself  in  that  language. 

"  And  what  countryman  are  you  ?  "  asked  a  youth  at  a  neighboring 
table. 

"  Ich  bin  Amerikaner." 

The  entire  party,  the  Jew  included,  burst  into  uproarious  laughter 
so  suddenly  that  two  black  urchins,  peering  in  upon  us,  took  to  their 
heels. 

"  Amerikaner !  Ja !  Ja !  "  shrieked  the  merrymakers,  "  Freilich ! 
We  are  all  Americans.  But  what  are  you  when  you  tell  the  truth  to 
your  good  comrades  ?    Amerikaner !     Ha !     Ha !  — " 

The  cane  of  the  first  speaker  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  table  and  the  mirth 
subsided.     Plainly,  he  was  a  man  of  authority  in  the  gathering. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  cried,  as  though  I  were  entitled  by  the  rules  of  "  the 
union  "  to  enter  two  answers,  "  what  country  are  you  from  ? " 

I  repeated  my  first  assertion. 

"So  you  are  an  American,  rheally?'*  he  demanded,  suddenly,  in 
clear  English,  though  with  a  marked  accent. 

A  long  reply  in  my  own  tongue  upset  his  conviction  that  I  should 
not  be  able  to  understand  him.  The  others,  however,  grinned  skeptic- 
ally and  fell  to  chattering  again,  glancing  up  from  time  to  time  to  mut- 
ter, "  Amerikaner !  Ja,  gewiss."  I  scraped  up  a  half-pipe  of  tobacco 
from  the  corners  of  a  pocket,  and  fell  asleep  over  the  fumes. 

A  whining  voice  sounded  in  my  ear :  — "  H'raus,  Hop !     Will  mich 


192       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

einschliessen !  "  I  opened  my  eyes  to  find  the  Jew  bending  over  me. 
The  room  was  nearly  empty.  Of  the  few  "  comrades  "  who  remained 
one  was  the  youth  who  had  addressed  me  in  EngHsh.  I  caught  up  my 
bundle  and  turned  towards  the  door. 

"  Du  bist,  aber,  ganz  kaput  ?  "  demanded  the  young  man,  "  have  you 
no  money  ?  " 

"No." 

He  rose  and  followed  after  me. 

"  If  you  are  ein  richtiger  Amerikaner,"  he  said,  *'  I  can  show  you 
where  to  pick  up  the  price  of  a  lodging." 

I  nodded.  The  youth  called  to  the  Hebrew  to  leave  his  door  un- 
locked, and  led  the  way  down  the  Moosky,  across  the  square,  and  along 
a  street  that  flanked  a  wooded  park. 

"  Esbekieh  Gardens,  those,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  taking  you  to  the  Ameri- 
can Mission  Hospital.     There  are  eight  American  preachers  there,  but 

your  best  chance  now  is  Reverend .     He  lives  in  the  third  story, 

first  door  to  the  right  of  the  stairway.     You  will  find  him  studying.   , 
He  studies  until  two  in  the  morning.     Knock  on  the  door  once.     He  | 
won't  answer ;  but  push  it  open  and  begin  a  hard-luck  story  right  away.  | 
Now  don't  tell  him  that  you  've  just  come  to  Egypt,  nor  that  you  're  \ 
a  sailor;  and,  if  he  asks  you  if  you  speak  German,  say  no.     Tell  him  | 
you  are  a  civil  engineer,  or  a  plate-layer,  or  a  mason,  and  that  you  've  \ 
just  walked  down  from  Central  Africa  —  your  clothes  fit  that  —  and  j 
that  you  could  get  no  work  there,  or  —  or  that  you  got  sick ;  yes,  that's  \ 
better,  for  he  's  an  old  wise  one  and  knows  there  's  plenty  of  work  up  i 
the  river.     Tell  him  you  speak  only  English  and  that  you  are  an  Ameri- 
can —  that  is  if  you  are  —  and  he  will  give  you  ten  piastres.     If  you  're 
not  sure  you  can  talk  English  without  a  foreign  accent  —  I  can't  tell 
whether  you  do  or  not  —  well,  I  would  n't  disturb  the  old  man.     He 
does  n't  like  Germans." 

The  youth  pointed  out  a  door  of  the  Mission  and  slipped  into  the 
blacker  night  of  one  of  her  pillars.  I  stepped  inside,  and,  mounting 
to  the  first  landing,  sat  down  to  think  matters  over.  The  night  air  of 
January  was  too  cold  to  sleep  out  of  doors  even  should  I  succeed  in 
hiding  where  the  patrol  could  not  rout  me  out.  But  to  come  at  mid- 
night to  disturb  an  aged  missionary  with  a  stereotyped  tale  of  woe! 
Yet  I  knew  the  bitter  hopelessness  of  looking  for  work  after  a  night  in 
the  streets,  and  "a  deep  breath  for  breakfast."  Work?  Why,  of 
course !  Just  the  point !  I  must  find  work  before  I  left  Cairo ;  why 
could  I  not  ask  for  a  small  loan  and  pay  it  back? 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  193 

I  continued  up  the  stairs  and  knocked  on  the  door  that  had  been  in- 
dicated. There  was  no  response,  but  a  tiny  thread  of  Hght  showed  on 
the  threshold.  I  stepped  inside.  In  the  far  corner  of  a  small  room, 
a  white-haired  man  closed,  over  a  finger,  the  book  he  was  reading,  and 
turned  the  light  of  a  student  lamp  full  upon  me.  I  began  my  story  — 
not  the  one  the  German  had  plotted  —  and  stated  my  case  briefly. 
To  my  dismay,  the  word  "  borrow  "  fell  flat. 

"  I  rarely,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  that  would  have  chorded 
well  with  the  last  key  of  a  piano,  "  I  rarely  give  money  to  a  man  who 
has  just  come  to  the  country.  What  business  has  he  here  without 
sufficient  funds  to  estabHsh  himself?  I  have  never  given  money  to 
sailors.  I  know  their  ways  too  well.  But  after  long  months  of  daily 
visits  from  '  Americans '  who  speak  English  as  if  they  had  learned  it 
in  the  slums  of  Berlin,  I  am  glad  to  see  a  real  American  again ;  though 
sorry  to  find  that  he  is  without  money,  and  still  more  so  that  he  is  a 
sailor.  Here  is  a  half-dollar" — handing  me  a  ten-piastre  piece — "I 
hope  you  will  not  drink  quite  all  of  it  up.     What  state  are  you  from?  " 

"  Michigan.  You  understand  I  am  only  borrowing  this  until  I  can 
find  work  — " 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  missionary,  rising  to  his  feet,  "  you  already 
have  the  money  —  the  amount  I  give,  if  I  give  at  all.  No  additions  to 
your  tale  will  cause  me  to  offer  more.  Why,  then,  attempt  to  raise 
false  hopes  within  my  breast?  So  you  are  from  Michigan?  I  am 
from  Pittsburg.  Good  night,"  and  without  giving  me  time  for  reply, 
he  sat  down  and  lost  himself  in  the  pages  of  his  book. 

"  You  were  gone  a  long  time,"  said  the  German,  as  I  emerged 
from  the  doorway.  "  You  could  n't  show  him  you  were  an  Ameri- 
can?" 

I  held  out  the  coin  in  my  hand. 

"  Ei !  Gott ! "  cried  my  companion,  "  you  got  it  ?  You  are  an 
American,  then,  a  genuine  American !  It 's  the  test  I  always  apply. 
He  can  tell  an  American  at  his  first  three  words." 

"  But  why  did  n't  the  crowd  believe  me  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Ach !  "  burst  out  the  youth,  "  Here  in  Cairo  all  the  boys  are  Ameri- 
cans. We  have  Germans,  Austrians,  Hungarians,  Poles,  Norwegians, 
all  sorts  in  the  union,  and  everyone  is  an  '  American ' —  except 
among  the  comrades.  And  not  three  of  them  ever  saw  the  United 
States!  It  is  because,  of  all  the  foreigners  in  Egypt,  the  Americans 
are  the  easiest  and  the  most  generous.  Then  you  know  what  a  bad 
reputation  Germans  have  as  beggars  —  all  turning  out  on  their  Wan- 
13 


194       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

derjahre?  The  Germans  here  will  help  us.  Yes!  But  how?  By 
giving  us  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  an  old  pair  of  shoes,  or  two  piastres. 
Bah!  But  the  Americans!  They  give  pounds  and  whole  suits,  and 
they  don't  ask  to  hear  the  whole  story  of  your  past  life.  Americans? 
Why,  there  are  dozens  of  American  missionaries,  judges,  merchants, 
engineers,  and  ei !  Gott !  the  tourists !  There 's  your  rich  harvest, 
mein  Freund !  Why,  a  year  I  've  been  in  Cairo  learning  English  and 
picking  the  roosters.  I  've  been  up  to  see  that  greybeard  four  times ! 
I  dressed  differently  every  time  and  practised  every  story  for  weeks 
until  I  got  the  accent  right.  Three  times  I  got  ten  piastres,  but  the 
fourth  he  asked  me  questions,  and,  as  I  had  n't  practised  the  answers, 
I  talked  wild  English  and  tangled  myself  up.  Then  I  tried  to  get  out 
of  it  by  saying  I  was  a  Pennsylvania  Dutchman.  The  old  man  started 
in  on  geography,  and  when  I  told  him  Pennsylvania  was  on  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico  he  took  his  cane  and  chased  me  out.  I  've  studied  maps 
of  the  United  States  since  then,  though.  He  could  n't  catch  me  again. 
I  know  every  city." 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  as  we  turned  Into  the  now  deserted  Moosky, 
"  all  die  Kunde  try  to  be  Americans.  Aber  Gott !  The  fools !  They 
are  too  pig-headed  ever  to  learn  to  talk  English  with  an  American  ac- 
cent. But  you!  Du  glucklicher  Kerl!  You  can  live  in  Cairo  until 
you  grow  a  beard !  " 

I  paid  my  lodging  and  followed  the  German  up  a  narrow,  winding 
stairway  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  On  the  third  story  he  pushed  open 
a  door  much  like  the  drop  of  a  home-made  rabbit  trap,  which  gave  ad- 
mittance to  a  small  room  where  four  of  six  beds  were  already  occu- 
pied. It  needed  only  one  long-drawn  breath  to  prove  that  the  "  bed- 
clothes "  had  not  seen  the  washtub  during  several  generations  of  "  the 
boys,"  and  that  a  can  of  insect  powder  could  be  used  to  great  ad- 
vantage. But  he  who  is  both  penniless  and  hypercritical  should  re- 
main at  home.  I  took  the  bed  beside  that  of  the  German  and  was  soon 
asleep. 

I  awoke  next  morning  to  find  my  guide  of  the  night  before  sitting 
on  his  bed  at  a  dry-goods  box  before  the  single  window,  sipping  black 
coffee  from  a  tin  can  and  eating  a  boiled  egg  and  a  slab  of  bread  with 
one  hand,  and  slowly  penning  a  letter  with  the  other.  Having  seen 
enough  of  him  already  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  a  man  of  consider- 
able education,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  wielded  a  pen  with  such 
apparent  difficulty. 

"  It 's  this  English  script  that  troubles  me,"  he  remarked,  as  if  in 


THE  LOAFER^S  PARADISE  195 

answer  to  my  unexpressed  question.     "  When  you  have  written  all  your 
life  in  German  script,  it  is  hard  to  change." 

"  Then  you  're  writing  EngUsh?  "  I  cried. 

He  motioned  to  the  letter  before  him  as  he  swallowed  the  last  of 
the  coffee :  — "  Of  course !  A  man  can't  eat  if  he  doesn't  work, 
There  's  a  New  York  millionaire  just  come  to  town.  His  name  is 
Leigh  Hunt,  and  I  'm  writing  to  ask  him  for  employment.  He  won't 
have  any,  of  course,  but  he  may  send  me  a  pound  or  two.  I  found  it 
too  hard  to  learn  to  speak  English  without  a  foreign  accent,  so  I  write 
instead." 

He  reached  inside  the  box  that  served  as  table  and  tossed  a  dozen  un- 
stamped letters  on  my  bed.  All  were  addressed  to  Englishmen  or 
Americans,  among  them  people  of  international  reputation. 

''  Read  them  according  to  the  dates,"  said  the  youth,  "  and  see  if  my 
English  has  n't  improved.  I  copied  them  all  and  sent  out  the  copies. 
All  but  two  sent  me  money.  One  wrote  me  to  come  and  see  him  to- 
day. The  other  I  have  n't  heard  from.  You  don't  spell  *  poverty  '  with 
a  capital,  do  you  ?  " 

As  he  had  spoken  but  one  sentence  in  English  since  our  meeting,  I 
was  surprised  to  note  the  fluent  use  of  that  language  in  his  letters. 
None  of  them  contained  actual  errors ;  and  only  a  peculiar  turning  of 
a  phrase,  here  and  there,  which  a  reader  off  his  guard  might  easily 
have  overlooked,  betrayed  the  nationality  of  the  writer.  The  stories 
they  told  were  proof  of  an  inventive  imagination.  A  dozen  "hard- 
luck  tales,"  no  one  of  which  resembled  the  others,  were  all  signed  by 
different  Americanized  names,  over  different  addresses.  Here  a  youth 
from  Baltimore,  who  had  come  to  Egypt  to  open  a  store,  had  been 
robbed  of  all  he  possessed.  There  a  civil  engineer  from  New  York 
had  been  forced  to  leave  his  work  on  the  Berber-Suakim  line  and 
hasten  down  to  Cairo  to  attend  a  sick  wife  and  four  small  children. 
An  aged  stone  mason,  who  had  been  injured  while  working  on  the 
barrage  at  Assuan,  prayed  for  assistance  to  get  back  to  his  home  in 
Cincinnati.  A  California  prospector,  just  returned  from  an  unsuccess- 
ful expedition  into  the  Uganda  protectorate,  was  lying  ill  and  penniless 
in  a  miserable  lodging-house. 

Nor  did  the  resourceful  German  confine  himself  to  his  own  sex. 
The  last  letter  was  an  appeal  to  a  well-known  American  lady  from  a 
young  girl  who  had  come  from  Boston  to  act  as  stenographer  to  a 
tourist  firm  that  had  not  materialized,  and  who  sought  assistance  be- 
fore starvation  should  drive  her  to  ruin. 


ig6       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD        ^ 

"  How  about  this  Boston  story?  "  I  asked. 

*'  Best  of  the  lot,"  replied  the  youth.  **  Sent  mc  two  pounds  and  a 
letter  full  of  wise  advice  —  for  females." 

*'  But  did  n't  she  ask  to  see  you  ?  " 

"Bah!  Most  of  them  are  too  busy  enjoying  themselves.  They 
prefer  to  send  a  bank  note  and  forget  the  matter.  Once  in  a  while, 
one  of  them  sends  for  me  and,  if  I  think  he  is  not  too  clever  —  most 
millionaires  are  n't,  you  know  —  I  go  to  see  him,  and  generally  get 
something  on  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  story." 

"  Where  do  you  get  the  names  ?  " 

"  Mostly  from  this,"  said  the  youth,  reaching  into  the  box  once  more 
and  pulling  out  a  Paris  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald.  "Ha  mil- 
lionaire starts  for  Egypt,  or  lands  here,  or  catches  cold,  or  bruises  his 
toe,  the  Herald  knows  it  —  and  never  forgets  the  address.  Then  there 
is  a  society  paper  published  here  in  Cairo  — " 

"  Do  you  write  German  letters,  too  ?  " 

"  Not  many.  I  used  to,  when  I  first  came  to  Africa,  but  it 's  a  poor 
game.  I  began  to  study  English  when  I  came  to  Cairo,  a  year  ago. 
My  first  letters  must  have  been  bad,  for  I  got  no  answers.  But  they 
make  me  a  living  now,  and  an  occasional  spree." 

"  How  much  time  does  your  letter  writing  take  ?  " 

"  Four  hours.  I  used  to  write  at  all  times.  Then  I  read  of  an 
author  who  wrote,  rain  or  shine,  from  nine  till  one,  and  I  find  it  a  good 
idea.  But  to-day  I  'm  going  to  break  the  rule  and  show  you  where 
you  can  talk  the  pounds  out  of  some  rich  Americans.  Why,"  he  cried, 
enthusiastically,  "  there  has  n't  been  a  real  American  working  the 
crowd  since  I  've  been  here.  We  '11  go  into  partnership.  I  know  all 
the  ropes  and  you  can  do  the  writing  and  interviewing ;  and,  when  we 
get  Cairo  pumped  out,  we  '11  go  up  the  Nile !  I  know  every  white  man 
from  here  to  Cape  Town.  I  've  covered  Africa  from  one  end  to  the 
other  —  with  an  American  partner,  too.  But  he  was  a  real  Pennsyl- 
vania Dutchman  and  had  a  little  accent.  You  '11  do  much  better. 
Africa  's  all  good ;  though  Cairo  's  the  best,  for  there  's  no  vagrancy  law 
here.  We  '11  make  an  easy  living  together  or  my  name  is  n't  Otto 
Pia." 

"  Ever  think  of  going  to  America  ?  " 

"  Never,"  he  cried,  "  unless  I  was  drunk.  Never  again  a  white 
man's  country  for  me !  Here,  a  white  wanderer  is  an  isolated  case  of 
misfortune,  far  from  his  native  shore.  At  home,  he  is  only  a  common 
tramp,  one  among  thousands,  and  the  man  who  would  give  him  pounds 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  197 

here  would  give  him  to  the  poHce  there.  That 's  why  few  of  die  Kunde 
who  come  here  —  if  they  have  brains  enough  to  weave  Marchen  —  ever 
go  back.  Do  you  know  the  secret  of  getting  the  sympathy  of  the  rich  ? 
It 's  to  make  them  think  we  Ve  much  worse  off  here  than  at  home  and 
to  keep  before  them  the  idea  that  we  cannot  find  work.  For  that 
reason  I  am  a  plate-layer  in  Cairo ;  for  plate-layers  are  only  needed  far 
up  the  Nile.  If  I  'm  up  the  Nile,  I  'm  a  stenographer,  or  a  waiter,  or 
anything  else  that  there  is  sure  to  be  no  work  for.  No,  mein  Freund, 
never  your  United  States  for  me !  And  you  '11  not  go  back  either, 
when  I  've  showed  you  how  easy  it  is  to  pick  the  roosters  here.  A 
tramp,  you  know,  is  like  a  prophet  — '  er  gilt  nichts  in  seinem  Vater- 
lande.' " 

"  While  you  're  dressing  and  thinking  up  a  few  good  Marchen,"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  his  writing,  **  I  '11  copy  this  letter.  Then  I  '11  show 
you  a  few  of  the  easiest  marks." 

I  protested,  however,  that  I  had  come  to  Cairo  to  work  rather  than 
to  weave  "  fairy  tales." 

"Work?"  he  shouted,  throwing  aside  his  pen  and  springing  to  his 
feet,  "  A  fellow  who  can  write  and  talk  English  —  and  German,  too, 
wants  to  work  in  Cairo?  Why,  mein  heber  Kerl,  you  —  you — " 
but  the  words  stuck  in  his  astonished  throat. 

I  descended  to  the  street  and  set  out  to  visit  such  European  con- 
tractors as  I  could  locate.  Long  after  dark,  foot-sore  and  half-fam- 
ished, covered  with  the  dust  of  Cairo,  I  returned  to  the  rendezvous  and 
sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables.  It  was  quite  evident  that  die  Kunde 
were  neither  foot-sore  nor  hungry,  and  their  garments  were  as  im- 
maculate as  secondhand  garments  can  be  made.  The  "  wise  ones  " 
had  loafed  in  the  cafes  and  gardens,  had  written  a  letter  or  told  a  hard- 
luck  story  somewhere,  and  turned  up  at  night  with  money  enough  to 
make  merry  through  the  whole  evening.  I,  having  tramped  all  day, 
from  one  address  to  another,  turned  up  with  —  an  appetite. 

Otto  Pia  watched  me,  with  a  half-smile  on  his  countenance,  for  some 
time  after  I  had  entered.  Then  he  raised  his  cane  and  rapped  on  the 
table  for  silence. 

"  Ei !  Gute  Kamaraden  I "  he  cried,  "  I  have  something  to  show 
you !  Guk'  mal !  Here  is  a  comrade  who  is  an  American  —  do  you 
hear  —  a  real  American,  not  a  patched-up  one ;  and  this  real  American 
—  in  Cairo  —  wants  to  work!" 

"  Work?"  roared  the  chorus,  "  Work  in  Cairo  —  and  a  real  Amer- 
ican —  Lieber  Gott  —  1st  's  denn  ein  Esel  ?  — " 


198       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

I  ate  a  meager  supper  and  crawled  away  to  bed.  On  the  following 
day,  I  tramped  even  greater  distances,  and  returned  to  the  wine  shop 
with  only  the  price  of  a  lodging  left  from  the  missionary's  donation. 
Pia  rose  and  took  a  seat  beside  me. 

"Lot  of  work  you  found,  eh?"  he  began.  "Didn't  any  of  them 
offer  you  money  ?  " 

"  Most  of  them,"  I  answered. 

"  And  you  did  n't  take  it?  "  cried  the  German,  "  Why,  you  —  you  — 
you  're  a  disgrace  to  the  union. 

"  I  know  how  you  feel  though,"  he  went  on,  "  I  was  the  same  once. 
When  I  ran  away  from  Germany  —  to  escape  the  army  —  I  would  n't 
take  a  cent  I  had  n't  earned ;  and  I  starved  a  month  in  Pietermaritz- 
burg,  looking  for  work  as  you  are  here,  before  I  got  over  my  silly  no- 
tions. Ach !  I  was  an  ass !  I  tell  you  it 's  no  use.  You  won't  find 
work  —  especially  in  those  rags.  If  you  will  work,  let  me  take  you 
where  you  can  get  some  clothes  first." 

It  was  all  too  evident  that  he  was  right.  Weather-beaten  garments 
might  pass  muster  in  the  wilderness  of  Palestine,  but  they  were  wholly 
out  of  place  in  the  Paris  of  Africa.  Twice  that  day,  those  who  had 
refused  me  employment  had  offered  to  fit  me  out  in  their  cast-off 
clothing.     I  concluded  to  profit  by  the  experience  of  Pia. 

The  German  abandoned  the  composition  of  pathetic  short  stories 
for  an  hour  next  morning  to  conduct  me  to  the  Secretary  of  the 
"  Cairo  Aid  Society,"  a  minister  of  the  Church  of  England.  Having 
pointed  out  the  rectory,  he  left  me  without  a  sign  of  recognition,  and 
marched  unfalteringly  down  the  street  until  he  vanished  behind  the 
next  row  of  houses.  I  mounted  the  broad  steps  and  pressed  the 
electric  button.     A  jet-black  Arab  opened  the  door. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  Reverend ,"  I  began. 

"  Very  sorry,  but  Reverend not  in,"  replied  the  servant,  with 

a  flash  of  ivory  teeth  in  a  very  friendly  smile. 

"When  will  he  be  in?" 

"  Ah  1     Reverend  gone  to   Iskanderia.     No   can   tell.     Cohk^ 

back  maybe  three  day,  maybe  week,"  and  the  black  face  grew  so  sor- 
rowful with  pity  that  I  hastened  to  leave,  lest  tears  should  begin  to 
flow. 

The  German  was  awaiting  me  about  four  steps  from  the  spot  where 
he  had  disappeared  at  a  brisk  walk. 

"  You  're  back  soon,"  he  said,  "  what  luck  ?  " 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  199 

"  He  is  not  in." 

"  Not  in  ?  Hollespein !  Certainly  he  's  in !  He  never  goes  out  be- 
fore noon.  Do  you  think  I  'm  a  bungler  at  my  profession?  I  know 
the  hours  of  every  padre  in  Cairo,  exactly,  always !  Who  told  you  he 
was  not  in  ?  " 

"  His  servant." 

"  Was !  Ein  verdammter  Schwartze  ?  Herr  Gott,  aber  du  bist  roh ! 
Two  days  looking  for  work,  and  you  don't  know  yet  that  every  nigger 
servant  will  tell  you  his  master  is  out  ?  Not  in !  " —  and  he  burst  forth 
in  his  peculiarly  silent,  yet  uproarious  laughter. 

A  new  light  had  broken  in  upon  me.  This,  then,  was  the  reason  that 
of  some  forty  white  men  whom  I  had  called  on  for  employment,  a 
bare  dozen  had  been  at  home?  I  left  my  companion  to  conquer  his 
risibility  alone,  and,  hastening  back  to  the  rectory,  brought  the  serv- 
ant to  the  door  with  a  vicious  ring. 

"  I  Ve  heard  the  Reverend is  in.     I  want  to  see  him." 

There  was  no  smile  on  the  ebony  face  now.  Even  through  the  mask 
of  black  skin  one  could  see  anger  welling  up,  the  blind  rage  of  the 
Mussulman  against  the  hated  unbeliever. 

"  I  say  Reverend not  in ! "  snarled  the  servant,  in  hoarse  sotto 

voce,  "  Go  away." 

With  a  string  of  English  oaths  that  spoke  better  of  his  linguistic 
abilities  than  the  influence  of  his  master,  he  shut  the  door,  quickly,  yet 
noiselessly. 

I  pressed  a  finger  against  the  electric  button  and  kept  it  there. 
A  quick  muffled  patter  of  footsteps  sounded  inside,  a  whispered  im- 
precation came  through  the  keyhole.     My  finger  was  growing  numb. 
1!  relieved  it  with  a  thumb  without  breaking  the  circuit. 
m  "  Go  away,"  growled  the  servant,  fiercely,  half  opening  the  door,  *'  go 
'     way,  damn  you,  I  cut  your  neck  " —  and  his  speech  did  not  end  there, 
I  relieved  my  thumb  with  another  finger.     The  murderous  gleam  in  the 
Arab's  eyes  blazed  forth  more  fiercely,  then  by  a  stern  command  of 
the  will  changed  to  an  appeal. 
I  "  My  God,  stop !  "  he  begged. 

Hk  "  Is  your  master  in  Iskanderia?  " 
P^r  ^  ^j.y  Qf  j.^gg  trembled  on  his  lips  and  was  forced  back. 

"  No,"  he  snapped,  throwing  open  the  door. 

I  stepped  inside  and  followed  him  along  the  hall.  At  the  entrance 
to  a  well-stocked  library  he  turned  to  me  with  a  hoarse  whisper :  — 


200       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AkOUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Damn  you !     Why  for  you  ring  bell  ?     I  make  you  full  of  holes  — " 

A  light  step  sounded  in  the  passage  and  a  grey-haired  English  lady 
stepped  towards  us. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  Arab,  without  a  pause,  **  master  see  you 
right  away,  sir.     Step  inside,  please,  sir." 

"  Maghmood,"  said  the  lady,  *' who  was  ringing  the.  door  bell  so 
long?" 

"  Think  button  get  stuck,  lady,  when  gentleman  push,"  replied  the 
Arab,  beaming  upon  me,  "  Shall  I  bring  chocolate,  lady  ?  " 

I  sat  down  in  the  library  and  was  joined  almost  at  once  by  a  sturdy, 
well-groomed  old  gentleman  —  a  Briton  by  every  token. 

"  Have  trouble  in  getting  in?"  he  demanded  abruptly,  before  I  had 
spoken. 

"  Why  —  er  —  the  servant  thought  at  first  you  were  not  in,"  I  ad- 
mitted. 

"  That  rascal !  "  cried  the  minister,  "  I  have  dismissed  ten  servants 
since  I  became  secretary  of  the  Society,  for  no  other  fault.  Magh- 
mood  knows  that  it  is  my  duty  to  keep  open  house  during  the  morning ; 
yet  for  some  reason  I  cannot  fathom,  an  Arab  domestic  cannot  bear 
the  thought  of  seeing  his  master  give  assistance  of  any  kind  to 
Europeans  in  unfortunate  circumstances.  It  is  a  servant  problem  that 
has  often  been  discussed  among  English  residents ;  yet  even  the 
plumber  and  the  carpenter  continue  to  be  shut  out  from  houses  where 
they  have  been  sent  for,  unless  they  are  well  acquainted  with  native 
tricks. 

"  Now  as  to  your  case  " —  he  needed  no  enlightenment  as  to  my 
errand,  evidently  — "  you  need  clothes,  of  course.  Ordinarily,  I  have 
several  suits  on  hand,  sent  by  Englishmen  in  the  city ;  but  there  has 
been  such  a  run  of  German  tramps  that  I  have  nothing  left.  I  shall 
have  something  before  long,  surely.  Meanwhile,  I  will  give  you  a 
four-day  ticket  to  the  Asile  Rudolph,  our  Society  building.  What  is 
your  trade  ?  " 

"  I  have  worked  as  carpenter,  mason,  blacksmith,  stevedore  — " 

"  Good  I  Good ! "  said  the  rector.  "  You  should  find  work  easily. 
If  you  don't,  come  back  when  your  ticket  runs  out.  I  shall  call 
Maghmood  up  on  the  carpet.     Good-day,  my  man." 

I  hastened  to  join  the  German. 

"  That's  good  as  a  beginning,"  he  said,  as  I  displayed  the  ticket, 
"  It  shows  you  are  on  the  trail,  and  you  can  work  him  for  tickets  for 
two  or  three  weeks.     But  I  must  get  back  to  my  desk.     Follow  this 


^ 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE 

avenue  co  the  parade  grounds;  where  you  saw  the  Khedive's  gu 
drilling,  you  know.     The  Asile  is  close  by." 

In  a  side  street  in  which  sprawled  and  squalled  native  infants  un- 
countable, I  tugged  at  a  bell  rope  protruding  from  a  stern  brick  wall, 
and  was  admitted  by  a  barelegged  Arab  to  the  courtyard  of  the  Asile 
Rudolph.  The  superintendent,  seated  before  the  "  office,"  called  for 
my  ticket.  He  was  a  sprightly  Englishman,  in  the  autumn  of  life, 
long  a  captain  in  the  Black  Sea  service,  and  still  known  to  all  as  "  Cap 
Stevenson."  Around  two  sides  of  the  court  were  the  kitchen  and 
sleeping-rooms  of  the  male  inmates.  Opposite  the  entrance  towered 
the  Women's  Asile,  a  blank  wall  except  for  one  window  opening, 
through  which  the  English  matron  thrust  her  head  at  frequent  inter- 
vals to  berate  the  captain,  in  a  caustic  falsetto,  for  the  hilarity  of  his 
charges. 

Among  my  new  companions,  some  two  score  of  ragged,  care-free 
fellows  who  had  already  gathered  around  the  tables  in  the  open  air 
dining-room,  the  German  vagabond  predominated.  The  French, 
Italian,  and  Greek  tongues  were  frequently  heard,  there  were  two  or 
three  castaways  from  the  British  Isles;  but  as  long  as  I  remained  at 
the  Asile  I  was  the  sole  representative  of  the  western  hemisphere. 

An  Arab  servant  bawled  out  from  the  depths  of  the  kitchen,  and, 
as  we  filed  by  the  door,  handed  each  of  us  a  bowl  of  steaming  soup 
and  an  ample  slab  of  bread.  There  was  no  French  parsimoniousness 
about  the  Asile  Rudolph.  Each  bowl  held  a  liberal  quart  —  of  some- 
thing more  than  discolored  dishwater,  too  —  and  down  at  the  bottom 
were  three  cubes  of  meat.  Never  did  a  bowl  appear  during  all  the 
days  that  I  wondered  at  the  audacity  of  the  society's  butcher  without 
exactly  three  such  cubes,  of  exactly  the  same  size.  To  my  com- 
panions they  were  the  daintiest  of  morsels.  The  best-dressed  vaga- 
bond never  dreamed  of  tasting  his  soup  until  he  had  fished  out 
this  basic  flesh  and  laid  it  on  the  table  before  him  to  gloat  over  until 
he  had  finished  his  liquid  refreshment.  Once  gorged  with  soup,  he 
sliced  the  cubes  carefully,  dipped  the  strips  in  rock  salt,  and  slowly 
munched  them,  one  by  one,  in  his  eyes  the  far-away  look  of  keen  en- 
joyment. As  for  myself,  when  I  attempted  to  cut  up  my  first  cube,  it 
bounded  away  over  my  head  and  before  I  could  turn  around  to  follow 
its  flight  had  disappeared  into  the  pocket  of  some  quicker-witted  guest. 
I  dismembered  the  second  morsel  with  the  assistance  of  a  fellow- 
boarder,  and  inflicted  upon  my  teeth  a  piece  of  convenient  size.  An 
hour  later,  I  deposited  the  still  undamaged  delicacy  outside  a  factory 


v^AGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

.  at  the  further  end  of  the  city.     When  I  turned  out  to  renew  my 

search  it  was  gone.  . 

Thoughtful  guests  of  the  Society  made  provision  during  the  noon- 
hour  of  plenty  for  the  twenty-four  hours  to  come;  for  morning  and 
evening  brought  only  coffee  or  tea,  and  bread.  There  was,  however, 
something  more  than  bed  and  board  in  store  for  the  lucky  possessor 

of  one  of  the  Reverend 's  tickets  -  a  shower  bath !    It  was  closed 

during  the  day,  but  I  was  by  no  means  the  last  to  finish  the  evening 
meal  and,  once  inside  the  wooden  closet,  it  was  only  the  protest  that 
the  stream  could  be  used  to  even  better  advantage  among  my  com- 
panions that  saved  me  from  a  watery  grave. 

I  began  my  fourth  day's  search  by  applying  at  the  office  of  the  chief 
owners  of  modern  Egypt -Thomas  Cook  and  Son.  There  is  hard  y 
a  walk  in  life,  from  the  architect  to  the  donkey-boy,  that  is  not  repre- 
sented among  the  employees  of  that  great  tourist  agency  Somewhere, 
in  those  cosmopolitan  ranks,  I  might  find  my  place.  I  proflEered  my 
services  to  the  company  as  a  sailor  on  their  Nile  steamers  as  an  un- 
skilled workman  in  any  of  their  enterprises,  as  a  man  with  a  trade  in 
the  Bulak  factory  where  their  floating  palaces  are  constructed.  Noth- 
ing came  of  it.  In  desperation,  I  struck  out  in  a  struggle  direct  y 
against  the  economic  law  of  labor,  and,  instead  of  dropping  lower  with 
each  refusal,  sought  to  climb  higher. 

It  was  true,  admitted  the  manager,  that  the  company  was  m  need 
of  clerks.  It  was  still  more  in  need  of  interpreters,  and,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, I  was  qualified  for  either  position.  "But-but-lm 
sorry  old  chap,"  and  he  looked  sternly  at  my  heelless  slippers  and 
ragged  corduroys,  "  but  really,  you  won't  do,  don't  you  know.  1  can 
give  you  a  note  to  a  well-known  contractor  — " 

I  accepted  it  with  pleasure ;  for  the  name  of  Cook  and  Son,  embossed 
at  the  top  of  a  letter  of  introduction,  has  great  weight  in  Egypt.  The 
contractor  to  whom  the  note  was  addressed  gave  me  — another  The 
addressee  of  the  second  gave  me  a  third.  Two,  three,  four  days,  1 
spent  in  delivering  notes  to  the  European  residents  of  Cairo  and  wag- 
ing battle  against  her  Islamite  servant  body.  Night  after  night  I  re- 
turned to  the  Asile  with  one  stereotyped  answer  in  my  head :  — 

"  I  really  haven't  anything  I  can  put  you  at  now.     I  'U  give  you  a 

letter  to .     Are  you  on  the  rocks  ?    Well,  here,  perhaps  this  dollar 

will  help  you  out.    You  don't  want  it?     Well,  I 'U  keep  you  m  mind 

The  employers  were  divided  into  two  classes:  those  who  offered 
money  as  the  easiest  means  of  getting  rid  of  an  unwelcome  visitor,  and 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  203 

those  who  had  been  ''  on  the  rocks  "  themselves  and  protested  against 
my  refusal  to  accept  alms  in  the  words  of  the  water-works  superintend- 
ent :  — "  Take  it,  man,  there  is  no  harder  work  than  looking  for  work ; 
why  not  be  paid  for  it?  "  The  strangest  fact  of  all,  one  that  impresses 
itself  on  the  out-of-work  the  world  over,  was  the  conviction  of  each  that 
I  should  easily  find  employment.  "  Why,  to  be  sure,"  exclaimed  a  su- 
perintendent of  shops  in  Bulak,  ''we  haven't  anything  to  offer  just 
now ;  but  a  man  with  your  list  of  trades  will  certainly  find  work  in  Cairo 
in  a  few  hours,  without  the  slightest  trouble."  It  would  have  been  hard 
to  convince  him  that  I  had  heard  that  same  statement  in  a  half-dozen 
languages  a  score  of  times  a  day  for  a  week  past.  Gradually  the  as- 
sertion of  "  the  comrades,"  that  he  who  would  work  in  the  Egyptian 
capital  was  an  ass,  took  on  new  force. 

Rich  or  penniless,  however,  he  who  does  not  enjoy  the  winter  sea- 
son in  Cairo  must  be  either  an  invalid,  a  prisoner,  or  an  incurable 
pessimist.  Here  one  does  not  need  to  add  to  every  projected  plan, 
"  weather  permitting."  The  sojourner  in  the  land  of  Egypt  knows,  as 
he  goes  to  his  rest  at  night,  that,  whatever  misfortune  to-morrow  may 
bring,  it  will  be  lightened  by  joyous  sunshine.  Nor  need  the  sans- 
sous  lack  entertainment  in  this  city  of  the  Nile.  One  had  but  to 
stroll  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Esbekieh  Gardens  to  hear  a  band  concert, 
to  see  some  quaint  native  performance,  or  to  find  some  excitement 
afoot.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  those  fortunate  beings  whose  names 
graced  the  pages  of  Pia's  society  papers  displayed  their  charms  to  the 
watching  throng.  At  frequent  intervals  the  Khedive  and  his  body- 
guard thundered  by.  Now  and  then  the  bellow  of  Cairo's  champion 
sais  heralded  the  approach  of  the  Khedive's  master.  Lord  Cromer. 
Nay,  entertainment  there  was  never  lacking  —  merely  food. 

When  my  ticket  ran  out  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  I  did 
not  apply  at  once  for  another.  The  evening  before,  the  Greek  pro- 
prietor of  a  famous  cigarette  factory  had  promised  me  a  position,  had 
even  explained  to  me  my  probable  duties  as  general  porter  in  the 
establishment.  But  when  I  had  inveigled  my  way  into  the  inner 
sanctum  for  the  second  time,  it  was  only  to  learn  that  a  compatriot  of 
the  proprietor  had  applied  earlier  in  the  morning,  and  was  already  at 
work.  Not  to  be  outdone  by  his  fellow-faranchees,  the  Greek  offered 
me  —  a  letter  of  introduction. 

The  hour  of  public  audiences  at  the  rectory  was  passed.  The  day, 
moreover,  was  Saturday,  a  half-holiday  among  contractors.  In  the 
hope  of  earning  a  night's  lodging  by  some  errand,  I  joined  the  howling 


204       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

mob  of  guides,  interpreters,  street-hawkers,  and  fakirs,  before  Shep- 
herd's Hotel.  I  was  the  sole  Frank  in  the  gathering.  Die  Kameraden, 
whatever  their  nationality,  would  have  been  transfixed  with  horror  had 
they  seen  one  of  their  own  patrician  class  competing  with  "  niggers  " 
for  employment.  As  a  last  resort,  had  "  the  business  "  been  utterly 
outrooted  in  Cairo,  the  members  of  "  the  union  "  might  have  consented 
to  busy  themselves  with  some  genteel  occupation ;  but  had  gaunt  star- 
vation squatted  on  his  haunches  in  their  path,  they  would  never  have 
stooped  to  the  work  of  natives. 

My  presence  was  soon  noised  through  all  the  screaming  multi- 
tude, and  I  was  cleverly  "  pocketed  "  by  a  dozen  snake  swallowers  and 
sword  jugglers,  and  gradually  forced  towards  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd.  When  I  resorted  to  force  and  beat  my  way  to  the  front  rank, 
I  was  little  better  oflf  than  before.  For  two  hours  I  watched  the 
natives  about  me  selling,  begging,  running  errands,  or  marching  away  to 
guide  a  tourist  party  through  the  city ;  without  once  seeing  a  beckon- 
ing finger  in  answer  to  my  own  offers  of  service.  At  frequent  inter- 
vals, a  lady  appeared  on  the  hotel  piazza,  ran  her  eyes  slowly  over 
the  front  ranks,  stared  at  me  a  moment,  and,  summoning  some  one-eyed 
rascal  beside  me,  sent  him  across  the  city  with  a  perfumed  note.  The 
ladies,  certainly,  were  not  to  be  blamed.  It  was  so  much  more  roman- 
tic ;  there  was  so  much  more  local  color  in  one's  doings,  don't  you  know, 
if  one's  errands  were  run  by  a  Cairene  in  flowing  robes,  rather  than  by 
a  tramp  such  as  one  could  see  at  home  any  day  in  St.  Qiarles  or  Madi- 
son Square!  What  if  one  paid  an  exorbitant  price  for  such  services? 
It  was  to  a  picturesque  figure,  don't  you  know,  whose  English  was  ex- 
cruciatingly funny. 

It  is  half  disgusting,  half  pathetic,  this  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
population  of  Egypt  at  the  crook  of  a  tourist  finger.  From  the  door, 
on  which  every  eye  was  fixed,  emerged  the  blatant  figure  of  a  pom- 
pous pork-packer,  or  the  half-baked  offspring  of  a  self-made  ances- 
try. With  a  wild  howl  the  mob  rose  en  masse  and  surged  forward, 
threatening  to  break  my  ribs  against  the  foot  of  the  piazza.  If  the 
pork  packer  scowled,  the  throng  fell  back  like  a  receding  tide.  If 
the  half-baked  offspring  raised  an  eyebrow,  the  multitude  swept  on, 
tossing  me  far  up  the  steps  into  the  arms  of  "  buttons,"  on  guard 
against  the  besiegers  below. 

He  was  a  coarse-grained  cockney,  this  **  buttons,"  and,  in  carrying 
out  his  orders  to  repel  boarders,  he  was  neither  a  respecter  of  persons 
nor  of  his  mother  tongue.     A  score  of  times  I  was  pushed  down  the 


n 

h 

^L._ji 

THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  205 

steps  I  had  not  chosen  to  ascend,  with  a  violence  and  profanity  out  of 
all  keeping  with  racial  brotherhood. 

But  every  dog  has  his  day.  A  sallow  youth  issued  from  the  hotel 
and  called  for  a  man  to  carry  a  letter.  "  Buttons  "  was  already  rais- 
ing a  hand  to  point  out  a  pock-marked  Arab  who  had  departed  on 
four  commissions  since  my  arrival,  when  the  tidal  wave  of  humanity 
set  me  on  the  piazza.  I  shouted  to  the  sallow  youth  just  as  "  buttons  " 
fell  upon  me.  The  youth  nodded.  It  was  a  long-sought  opportunity. 
I  reversed  roles  with  the  cockney  and  landed  him  in  a  picturesque 
spread-eagle  on  the  heads  of  the  backsheesh-seeking  multitude.  Had 
he  not  been  wont  to  use  his  influence  in  favor  of  a  very  limited  number 
of  the  throng,  he  would  have  been  more  immaculate  in  appearance, 
when  he  was  dug  out  by  his  pock-marked  confederate  and  restored  to 
his  coign  of  vantage.  Meanwhile  I  had  received  the  letter  and  a  five 
piastre  piece  in  payment,  and  had  departed  on  my  errand. 

The  coin  paid  my  evening  meal  and  a  lodging  for  two  nights  in 
*  the  union,"  and  left  me  coppers  enough  for  a  native  breakfast.  Sun- 
day was  no  time  either  to  ''  forage,"  or  to  visit  rectors  of  the  church 
of  England.  In  company  with  Pia,  who  would  under  no  circumstances 
use  his  inventive  pen  on  the  Sabbath,  I  visited  those  few  corners  of 
Cairo  to  which  my  search  had  not  yet  led  me ;  the  Mohammedan  Uni- 
versity of  El  Azkar,  the  citadel,  and  the  ruined  mosques  beyond  the 
walls. 

When  all  other  resources  fail  him,  the  Anglo-Saxon  wanderer  has 
one  unfailing  friend  in  the  East  —  Tommy  Atkins.  However  penni- 
less and  forlorn  he  may  be,  the  glimpse  of  a  red  jacket  and  a  monkey 
cap  on  a  lithe,  erect  figure,  hurrying  through  the  foreign  throng,  is 
certain  to  give  him  new  heart.  Thomas  has  become  a  familiar  sight 
in  Cairo  since  the  days  of  the  Arabi  rebellion.  Down  by  the  Kasr-el- 
Nil  bridge,  out  in  the  shadows  of  the  pencil-like  minarets  of  Mohammed 
Ali's  mosque,  in  parade  grounds  scattered  through  the  city,  he  may  be 
found  any  afternoon  perspiringly  chasing  a  football  or  setting  up  his 
wickets  in  the  screaming  sunlight,  to  the  astonishment  and  delight  of 
a  never-failing  audience  of  apathetic  natives.  He  does  n't  pose  as  a 
philanthropist  —  simple  T.  Atkins  —  nor  as  a  man  of  iron-bound  moral- 
ity —  rather  prides  himself,  in  fact,  on  his  incorrigible  wickedness. 
But  the  case  has  yet  to  be  recorded  in  which  he  has  not  given  up  his 
last  shilling  more  whole  heartedly  than  the  smug  tourist  would  part 
with  his  cigar  band. 
Thomas,   however,   has   no  overwhelming   love    for   "  f urriners  — 


2o6       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Dutchmen,  dagoes,  and  such  Hke."  It  would  be  out  of  keeping  with 
his  profession.  That  was  why  Pia,  after  pointing  out  to  me  the  least 
public  entrance  to  the  cavalry  barracks,  on  this  Sunday  noon,  strolled 
on  down  the  street.  The  officers'  dinner  was  already  steaming  when  I 
was  welcomed  by  the  six  privates  of  that  day's  mess  squad.  By  the 
time  it  had  been  served,  I  was  lending  the  cooks  able  assistance  in 
disposing  of  the  plentiful  remnants,  amid  the  stories  and  laughter  of 
a  redcoats'  messroom.  Even  the  bulging  pockets  with  which  I  departed 
were  less  cheering  than  the  last  bellow  from  the  barrack's  kitchen :  — 
*'  Drop  in  to  mess  any  day,  Yank,  till  you  land  something.  No  bloody 
need  to  let  your  belly  cave  in  while  there's  a  khaki  suit  in  Cairo." 

I  was  admitted  to  the  library  of  the  Reverend  the  following 

morning  without  so  much  as  a  hinted  challenge  from  Maghmood. 
The  good  rector  was  more  distressed  than  surprised  that  I  had  not 
yet  found  work. 

"  The  difficulty  is  right  here,"  he  cried,  as  he  made  out  a  second 
Asile  ticket.  "  No  one  will  hire  you  in  those  rags,  if  you  have  a  dozen 
trades.  I  must  pick  you  up  something  that  looks  less  disreputable. 
Come  on  Wednesday.     I  shall  surely  have  something  to  offer." 

I  fished  out  the  note  of  the  Greek  cigarette  maker  and  bore  greet- 
ings from  one  European  resident  to  another  for  two  days  more.  On 
the  third,  I  returned  to  the  rectory  and  received  a  bundle  of  astonish- 
ing bulk. 

"  These  things  may  not  all  fit  you,"  said  the  rector,  "  but  it  is  all 
we  have  been  able  to  collect." 

Red-eyed  with  hope,  I  hurried  back  to  the  Asile  and  opened  the  pack- 
age. Just  what  I  should  have  represented  in  the  garments  that  came  to 
view  I  have  not  yet  concluded.  On  top  was  a  pair  of  trousers,  in 
excellent  condition,  but  of  that  screaming  pattern  of  unabashed  checks 
in  which  our  cartoonists  are  accustomed  to  garb  bookmakers  and 
Tammany  politicians.  In  texture,  they  were  just  the  thing — for, 
Arctic  explorers,  and  they  resigned  in  despair  some  four  inches  above 
my  Nazarene  slippers.  Next  came  a  white  shirt,  with  a  mighty  ex- 
panse of  board-like  bosom  —  and  without  a  single  button;  then  the 
low-cut  vest  of  a  dress  suit,  and,  lastly,  a  minister's  long  frock  coat, 
with  wide,  silk-faced  lapels. 

The  first  shock  over,  I  bore  the  treasure  back  to  the  rectory. 
But  the  good  padre  refused  to  unburden  me.  "  Oh,  I  don't  want  them 
around  the  house !  "  he  protested,  "  If  you  can't  wear  them,  sell  them." 
Even  the  proprietor  of  "  the  union,"  however,  refused  to  come  to  my 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  207 

rescue.  With  much  cajoling,  I  lured  an  unsophisticated  newcomer  at 
the  Asile  inside  the  vest  and  trousers,  and  intrusted  the  other  garments 
to  the  safe-keeping  of  Cap  Stevenson. 

The  endless  stream  of  notes,  having  its  source  at  the  office  of 
Cook  and  Son,  flowed  on  unchecked.  If  my  object  had  been  merely 
to  gain  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  Cairenes  of  all  classes,  I 
could  not  have  chosen  a  better  method.  No  tourist,  with  his  howling- 
bodyguard  of  guides  and  dragomans,  ever  peeped  into  half  the  strange 
corners  to  which  my  wanderings  led  me.  My  command  of  Arabic, 
too,  increased  by  leaps  and  bounds;  for  the  necessity  of  giving  ex- 
pression of  my  innermost  thoughts  to  the  servant  body  of  Cairo  re- 
quired an  ever-increasing  vocabulary. 

The  two-hundredth  letter  of  introduction  —  if  my  count  be  not  at 
fault  —  took  me  to  that  ultra- fashionable  world  across  the  Nile.  The 
director  of  the  Jockey  Club  read  the  latest  epistle  carefully,  and,  with 
sportsman-like  fairness,  gave  me  another.  The  delivery  thereof  re- 
quired my  presence  in  the  great  Gezireh  Hotel.  For  once  I  was  not 
even  challenged  by  the  army  of  servants;  the  very  audacity  of  my 
entrance  into  those  Elysian  Fields  left  the  astonished  domestics 
standing  in  petrified  rows  behind  me.  The  superintendent  was  most 
kind.  He  gave  me,  even  without  the  asking,  a  letter  of  introduction ! 
The  curse  of  Cain  on  him  who  invented  the  written  character!  My 
entire  Cairene  experience  had  been  bounded  by  this  endless  chain  of 
notes  through  all  the  cycle  of  her  cosmopolitan  inhabitants. 

The  new  missive  carried  me  back  to  Shepherd's  Hotel,  and  for  once 
I  escaped  employment  by  a  hair's  breadth.  The  portly  Swiss  manager 
was  inclined  to  overlook  the  shortcomings  in  my  attire.  He  needed  a 
cellar  boy,  could  use  another  porter,  or  "  you  may  do  as  a  bell-boy," 
he  mused,  with  half-closed  eyes,  "  if  — " 

What  vision  was  this?  Might  I  aspire  even  to  displace  mine 
ancient  enemy,  in  all  the  splendor  of  two  close  rows  of  bright,  brass 
buttons,  and  pace  majestically  back  and  forth  with  the  sang-froid 
of  a  lion  tamer,  above  the  common  horde  I  had  so  lately  quitted? 
What  folly  to  keep  silent  concerning  those  acquirements  that  espe- 
cially fitted  me  to  serve  a  cosmopolitan  clientele,  while  fickle  for- 
tune was  holding  forth  this  golden  prize !  I  broke  in  upon  the  mana- 
ger's brown  study  with  a  deluge  of  German.  He  opened  wide  his  eyes. 
I  addressed  him  in  French.  He  sputtered  with  astonishment.  I  con- 
tinued in  Italian.  He  waved  his  hands  above  his  head  like  a  swimmer 
about  to  go  down  for  the  third  time.     I  added  a  savoring  of  Spanish 


J 


208       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

and  Arabic  for  good  measure,  and  he  clutched  weakly  at  a  hotel 
pillar. 

Gradually,  strength  returned  to  his  trembling  limbs.  He  rubbed 
his  astonished  gorge  with  a  ham-like  hand  and  dislodged  an  impris- 
oned shriek :  — "  Aber,  mein  lieber  Kerl !  Speaking  all  those  langvages 
and  out  of  a  job  —  and  in  rhags !  Why  —  you  —  you  —  you  must  haf 
been  up  to  some  crhooked  business,  yes  ?  "  He  glanced  fearfully  about 
him  at  the  silver  ornaments  of  the  office.  "I  —  I  —  I  am  very 
sorry,  we  haf  not  now  a  single  vacancy.  But  —  but  you  vill  not 
haf  the  least  trouble  —  mit  so  viel'  Sprachen  —  in  getting  a  position, 
not  the  slightest!     I  gif  you  a  note  —  to  Cook  and  Son." 

I  wandered  sadly  away  across  the  city  and  stumbled  upon  the 
American  legation.  Long  battle  won  me  admittance  to  the  office  of 
the  secretary.  Beyond  that  I  could  not  force  my  way.  The  secretary 
heard  my  case,  and,  eager  to  be  off  to  some  afternoon  function,  thrust 
an  official  sheet  into  his  typewriter  and  set  forth  in  a  "  to-whom-it-may- 
concern  "  the  half-dozen  trades  I  mentioned ;  and  several  others  to 
which  I  had  never  aspired.  A  second  sheet  he  ruined  with  a  score  of 
addresses,  and  bade  me  be  gone.  If  there  was  any  corner  of  Cairo 
from  Heliopolis  to  Masr  el  Attika  which  I  had  not  already  visited, 
these  documents  soon  repaired  the  oversight.  Two  days  the  new  task 
required,  and  it  brought  no  reward,  save  one.  The  head  of  the  Egyp- 
tian railway  system  promised  me  a  pass  to  the  coast  when  I  chose  to 
leave  the  country.  I  did  not  choose  at  once,  and,  returning  on  the  third 
day  to  the  legation,  fought  my  way  into  the  sanctum  of  the  consul- 
general  himself. 

"  H  you  are  looking  for  work  of  a  specific  character,"  said  that 
gentleman,  "  I  can  do  no  more  than  has  already  been  done  —  give  you 
more  addresses.  If  you  are  merely  looking  for  work,  I  can  give  you 
employment  at  once." 

I  pleaded  indifference  to  qualifying  adjectives. 

The  consul  chose  a  card  from  his  case,  turned  it  over,  and  wrote  on 
the  back :  — "  Tom ;  —  Let  Franck  do  it." 

"  Take  this,"  he  said,  "  to  my  residence ;  it  is  opposite  that  of  Lord 
Cromer,  near  the  Nile,  and  give  it  to  my  butler." 

"  Tom,"  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  servant  body  of  a  vast  es- 
tablishment, proved  to  be  a  young  American  of  the  pleasantest  type. 
I  came  upon  him  dancing  blindly  around  the  ballroom  of  Mr.  Morgan's 
residence,  and  shouting  himself  hoarse  with  the  Arabic  variation  of 
"  Get  a  move  on ! "     The  consul,  it  transpired,  was  to  give  a  dinner. 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  209 

with  dancing,  to  the  lights  of  society  wintering  in  the  city.  In  the 
two  days  that  remained  before  the  eventful  evening  the  ballroom  floor 
must  be  properly  waxed.  Twelve  native  workmen,  lured  thither  by 
the  extraordinary  wage  of  twenty-five  cents  a  day,  had  been  holding 
down  the  aforementioned  floor  since  early  morning.  About  them  was 
spread  powdered  wax.  In  their  hands  were  long  bottles.  Above 
them  towered  the  dancing  butler. 

"  Put  some  strength  into  it,"  he  bellowed,  by  way  of  variation, 
as  I  stepped  across  the  room  towards  him.  For  the  three  succeeding 
strokes,  the  dozen  bottles,  moving  in  unison,  to  the  chant  of  a  thir- 
teenth "  workman  "  who  had  been  hired  to  squat  in  a  far  corner  and 
furnish  vocal  inspiration,  nearly  crushed  the  powdered  wax  under 
them.     But  this  unseemly  display  of  energy  was  of  short  duration. 

I  delivered  the  cabalistic  message.  The  Arabs  bounded  half  across 
the  room  at  sound  of  the  shriek  emitted  by  its  addressee :  — "  I  '11 
fire  'em !  "  bellowed  Tom.  *'  I  '11  fire  'em  nozv.  An  American  ?  I  'm 
delighted,  old  man!  Get  on  the  job  while  I  kick  these  niggers  down 
the  stairs.     Had  any  experience  at  this  game  ?  " 

I  recalled  a  far-oflf  college  gymnasium,  and  nodded. 

"  Take  you  're  own  gait,  only  so  you  get  it  done,"  cried  the  butler, 
charging  the  fleeing  Arabs. 

I  discarded  the  bottle  process  and  rigged  up  an  apparatus  after 
the  fashion  of  a  handled  holly-stone.  By  evening,  the  polishing  was 
half  completed.  When  I  turned  my  attention  to  the  dust-streaked 
windows,  late  the  next  afternoon,  the  ballroom  floor  was  in  a  condition 
that  boded  ill  for  any  but  sure-footed  dancers.  The  outbreak  of 
festivities  found  me  general  assistant  to  the  culinary  department, 
separated  only  by  a  Japanese  screen  from  the  contrasting  class  of  so- 
ciety; represented  by  such  guests  as  Lord  Cromer  and  his  youthful 
Lady,  the  ex-Empress  Eugenie,  the  Crown  Prince  of  Sweden,  and  the 
brother  of  the  Khedive.  Deeply  did  I  regret  the  lack  of  inventiveness 
that  forced  me  to  report  to  the  sleepless  inmates  of  the  Asile  to  which 
Cap  Stevenson  admitted  me  long  after  closing  hours,  that  the  conversa- 
tion of  so  distinguished  a  gathering  had  been  commonplace,  the  dancing 
unanimated,  and  the  flirting  unseemly. 

By  arrangement  with  Tom,  I  continued  to  "  do  it "  long  after  the 
day  of  the  ball.  The  fare  at  the  servants'  table  was  beyond  criticism, 
but  I  declined  a  blanket  and  a  straw-strewn  stall  in  the  consul's 
stable,  and  retained  my  cot  at  the  Asile  at  a  daily  cost  of  two  pias- 
tres. As  my  earnings  grew,  I  repaired,  one  night,  to  the  American 
14 


210       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Mission  Hospital,  mounted  to  the  third  story,  knocked  on  the  first  door 
to  the  right,  pushed  it  open,  and  astonished  an  aged  missionary  from 
Pittsburg  out  of  a  night's  labor.  One  idle  hour,  too,  I  examined  again 
the  garments  I  had  left  with  Cap  Stevenson  and  found  them  less  use- 
less than  I  had  once  imagined.  The  shirt,  being  tied  together,  front 
and  back,  with  string,  awoke  the  envy  of  all  the  "  comrades."  For  the 
bosom  was  of  many  layers,  and,  as  each  one  became  soiled,  I  had  but 
to  strip  it  off,  and  behold!  —  a  clean  shirt.  When  I  had  laid  the 
bundle  away  again,  it  contained  only  the  minister's  frock  coat. 

Cap  Stevenson  had  made  a  scientific  study  of  the  genus  vagabundus 
that  enabled  him  to  gauge  with  surprising  precision  the  demands  that 
would  be  made  on  the  Asile  from  day  to  day.  There  fell  into  my  hands, 
one  evening,  a  Cairo  newspaper,  containing  the  following  item:  — 

Suez,  February  2d,  1905. 
The  French  troop-ship  ,  outward  bound  to  Madagascar  with  five  hun- 
dred recruits,  reports  that  while  midway  between  Port  Said  and  Ismailia,  in 
her  passage  of  the  canal,  five  recruits  who  had  been  standing  at  the  rail  sud- 
denly sprang  overboard  and  swam  for  the  shore.  One  was  carried  under  and 
crushed  by  the  ship's  screw.  The  others  landed  and  were  last  seen  hurrying 
away  into  the  desert.    All  concerned  were  Germans. 

I  entered  the  ofifice  to  point  out  the  item  to  the  superintendent. 

"  Aye,"  said  Cap,  "  I  've  seen  it.  That 's  common  enough.  They  '11 
be  here  for  dinner  day  after  to-morrow." 

They  arrived  exactly  at  the  hour  named,  the  four  of  them,  weather- 
beaten  and  bedraggled   from  their  swim  and  the  tramp  across  the 

desert,  but  supplied  with  the  Reverend  's  tickets.     Two  of  the 

quartet  were  very  engaging  fellows  with  whom  I  was  soon  on  intimate 
terms.  One  of  this  pair  had  spent  some  months  in  Egypt  years  before, 
after  using  the  same  means  to  make  the  passage  from  Europe. 

On  the  Friday  after  their  arrival,  this  man  of  experience  met  me  at 
the  gate  of  the  Asile  as  I  returned  from  my  day's  labor. 

"  Heh !  Amerikaner,"  he  began,  "  do  you  get  a  half  holiday  to-mor- 
row ?  " 

"  Sure,"  I  answered. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  Hans  out  for  a  moonlight  view  of  the  Pyra- 
mids. It's  full  moon  and  all  the  tourist  companies  are  sending  out 
tally-ho  parties.     Want  to  go  along?  " 

I  did,  of  course.  The  next  afternoon  I  left  the  Asile  in  company 
with  the  pair.  At  the  door  of  the  office,  I  halted  to  pay  my  night's 
lodging. 


Mi-: 


Spinners  in  the  sun  outside  the  walls  of  Cairo 


Guests  of  the  Asile   Rudolph,   Cairo.     Frangois,  champion  beggar,  in  the 
center,  in  the  cape  he  wore  as  part  of  his  "system" 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  211 

*'  Never  mind  that,"  said  Adolph,  the  man  of  experience,  "  we  '11 
sleep  out  there." 

'*  Eh?  "  cried  Hans  and  I. 

Adolph  pushed  open  the  outer  gate,  and  we  followed. 

"  Suppose  you  '11  pay  our  lodging  at  the  Mena  House  ?  "  grinned 
Hans,  as  we  crossed  the  Kasr-el-Nil  bridge. 

"  Don't  worry,"  replied  Adolph. 

We  pushed  through  the  throng  of  donkey  boys  beyond  the  bridge 
and,  ignoring  the  electric  line  that  connects  Cairo  with  the  pyramids 
of  Gizeh,  covered  the  eight  miles  on  foot.  Darkness  fell  soon  after 
our  arrival,  and  with  it  rose  an  unveiled  moon.  The  tourists  were  out 
in  force.  Adolph  led  the  way  in  and  out  among  the  ancient  monu- 
ments and  pointed  out  the  most  charming  views  with  the  discernment 
of  an  antiquarian.  The  desert  night  soon  turned  cold.  The  tourist 
parties  strolled  away  to  the  great  hotel  below  the  hill,  and  Hans  fell  to 
shivering. 

"  Where  's  this  fine  lodging  you  're  telHng  about  ?  "  he  chattered. 

"  Komm'  mal  her,"  said  Adolph, 

He  picked  his  way  over  the  tumbled  blocks  towards  the  third  pyra- 
mid, climbed  a  few  feet  up  its  northern  face,  and  disappeared  in  a 
black  hole.  We  followed,  and,  doubled  up  hke  balls,  slid  down,  down, 
down  a  sharply  inclined  tunnel,  some  three  feet  square,  into  utter 
darkness.  As  our  feet  touched  a  stone  floor,  Adolph  struck  a  match. 
The  flame  showed  two  small  vaults  and  several  huge  stone  sarcophaghi. 

"  Beds  waiting  for  us,  you  see  ?  "  said  Adolph.  "  Probably  you  Ve 
chatted  with  the  fellows  who  used  to  sleep  here  ?  They  're  in  the 
British  Museum,  in  London." 

He  dropped  the  match  and  climbed  into  one  of  the  coflins.  I 
chose  another  and  found  it  as  comfortable  as  a  stone  bed  can  be, 
though  a  bit  short.  Our  sleeping  chamber  was  warm,  somewhat  too 
warm  in  fact,  and  Hans,  given  to  snoring,  awoke  echoes  that  resounded 
through  the  vaults  like  the  beating  of  forty  drums.  But  the  night 
passed  quickly,  and,  when  our  sense  of  time  told  us  that  morning  had 
come,  we  crawled  upward  on  hands  and  knees  through  the  tunnel  and 
out  into  a  sunlight  that  left  us  blinking  painfully  for  several  mo- 
ments. 

A  throng  of  tourists  and  Arabian  rascals  was  surging  about  the 
monuments.  A  quartet  of  khaki-clad  Britishers  kicked  their  heels  on 
the  forehead  of  the  Sphinx,  puffing  at  their  pipes  as  they  exchanged 
the  latest  garrison  jokes.     We  fought  our  way  through  the  clinging 


212       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Arabs,  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  pyramid  of  Cheops,  took  in  the 
regulation  "  sights/'  and  strolled  back  to  Cairo. 

Many  a  strange  bit  of  human  driftwood  floated  ashore  in  the  Asile 
Rudolph,  but  their  stories  would  take  too  long  in  the  telling.  Yet  no 
account  of  that  winter  season  in  Cairo  would  be  complete  without 
mention  of  "  Frangois."  Frangois  was,  of  course,  a  Frenchman,  a 
Parisian,  in  fact,  and,  contrary  to  the  usual  rule,  it  was  he,  and  not 
a  German,  who  won  and  still  holds  the  mendicant  championship  of 
Egypt.  To  all  who  spoke  French,  he  was  known  as  the  most  loqua- 
cious and  jolly  lodger  at  the  Asile.     The  Reverend  had  long 

since  turned  him  away  from  the  door  of  the  rectory;  but  Frangois 
would  not  be  driven  from  his  accustomed  bed,  and  paid  his  two 
piastres  nightly. 

As  a  young  man  the  Frenchman  had  worked  faithfully  at  his  trade ; 
he  admitted  it  with  shame.  Three  years  in  the  army,  however,  had 
awakened  within  him  an  uncontrollable  Wanderlust,  and  during  the 
twenty-three  years  since  his  discharge,  he  had  tramped  through  every 
country  of  Europe.  He  was  a  man  of  meager  education  and  by  no 
means  the  native  ability  of  Pia  and  many  of  the  German  colony. 
But  long  years  before  his  arrival  in  Egypt,  he  had  evolved  "  un 
systeme  "  to  which  his  fame  as  a  mendicant  was  due.  The  first  part 
of  this  system  concerned  his  personal  appearance.  He  was  pale  of 
complexion,  though  in  reality  very  robust,  and  he  had  trained  his 
shoulders  into  a  droop  that  suggested  the  last  stages  of  consumption. 
His  garb,  in  general,  was  that  of  a  French  workman,  but  over  this 
he  wore  a  cloak  with  a  long  cape  that  gave  him  an  aspect  not  unlike 
a  monk,  and,  combined  with  his  drooping  shoulders  and  sallow,  long- 
drawn  face,  created  a  figure  so  forlorn  as  to  attract  attention  in  any 
clime.  Nothing,  Frangois  asserted,  had  contributed  so  much  to  his 
success  as  this  cloak.  Rain  or  shine,  from  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land to  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea,  in  the  depth  of  winter  or  in  mid- 
summer, he  had  clung  to  this  garb  for  twenty  years,  replacing  in 
that  time  a  dozen  cloaks  by  others  of  identical  design.  Even  in 
Egypt  he  refused  to  appear  in  public  without  this  superfluous  outer 
garment,  and,  though  the  African  sun  had  turned  the  threadbare  cape 
almost  as  yellow  as  the  desert  sands,  he  was  not  to  be  separated 
from  it  until  he  had  picked  up  another  in  some  charitable  institu- 
tion of  the  city. 

The  second  part  of  Frangois's  system  was  extremely  simple.  The 
method  which  Pia  so  successfully  manipulated  was  too  complicated  for 


THE  LOAFER'S  PARADISE  213 

a  man  of  little  schooling;  yet  Frangois  rarely  made  a  verbal  appeal 
for  alms.  On  a  score  of  cards,  which  he  carried  ever  ready  in  a 
pocket  of  his  cloak,  was  written  in  as  many  languages  this  petition :  — 

**  I  am  ill  and  in  misery.     Please  help  me." 

The  French  card  was  his  own  production.  The  others  he  had  col- 
lected from  time  to  time  as  he  made  friends  in  the  various  countries 
he  had  visited.  For,  with  all  his  wanderings,  Frangois  knew  hardly  a 
word  of  any  language  but  his  own. 

I  set  out  with  the  French  champion,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  to 
visit  the  mosque  of  Sultan  Hassan.  Not  far  from  the  Asile  gate,  he 
caught  sight  of  a  well-dressed  man,  whose  appearance  stamped  him 
as  a  German.  Frangois  shuffled  his  cards  with  a  hasty  hand,  chose 
the  one  in  the  corner  of  which  was  written,  in  tiny  letters,  the  word 
"  allemand,"  and  set  off  at  a  trot.  Arrived  within  a  few  paces  of  his 
intended  victim,  he  fell  into  a  measured  tread,  thrust  out  the  card, 
and  waited  with  sorrowful  face  and  hanging  head.  The  German  re- 
turned the  card  with  a  five-piastre  piece. 

Cairo  is  nothing  if  not  cosmopolitan,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  every 
one  of  the  cards  did  not  make  its  appearance  at  least  once  during  the 
afternoon.  American  tourists,  English  officers,  French  entrepreneurs, 
Greek  priests,  Italian  merchants,  Turkish  clerks,  Indian  travelers, 
even  the  Arab  scribes  sitting  imperturbable  beside  their  umbrella- 
shaded  stands, — all  had  the  misery  of  Frangois  called  to  their  attention. 
^Vhether  it  was  out  of  gratitude  for  a  sight  of  the  familiar  words  of  his 
native  tongue,  or  out  of  pity  for  the  abject  creature  who  coughed 
so  distressingly  and  pointed  to  his  ears  Hke  a  deaf  mute  whenever  a 
question  was  put  to  him,  rare  was  the  man  who  did  not  give  something, 
I'Vangois  collected  more  than  a  hundred  piastres  during  that  single 
promenade.  Yet  before  we  set  out  he  had  called  me  aside  and  drawn 
from  an  inner  pocket  a  purse  that  contained  twenty-six  English  sov- 
ereigns in  gold ! 

But  it  was  his  method  of  dispensing  his  income  that  made  the 
]^>enchman  an  enigma  to  his  confidants.  Frangois  neither  drank  nor 
smoked ;  he  rarely,  if  ever,  indulged  even  in  the  mildest  dissipation. 
Xot  far  from  the  Asile,  he  stopped  at  a  cafe  for  his  petit  dejeuner  of 
chocolate  and  rolls  and  his  morning  paper ;  and,  had  he  met  the  Khedive 
himself  out  for  a  stroll,  Frangois  would  not  have  appealed  to  him 
before  that  breakfast  was  over.  He  was  strictly  a  union  man,  was 
Frangois,  in  his  hours  of  labor. 

But  his  daily  expenditures  were  for  bed  and  breakfast  only.     There 


214       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

were  scores  of  French  chefs  in  Cairo,  ever  ready  to  welcome  whomever 
knew  the  kitchen  door  and  the  language  of  the  cuisine.  If  his  shoes 
wore  out,  there  were  several  French  shops  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Esbe- 
kieh  Gardens.  If  he  were  in  need  of  nothing  more  costly  than  a  bar 
of  soap,  Frangois  begged  one  of  the  first  druggist  he  came  upon.  The 
sovereigns  which  cosmopolitan  Cairo  thrust  upon  him  were  spent  al- 
most entirely  for  souvenirs  for  his  relatives  in  Paris.  The  most  costly 
albums  of  Cairene  views,  fine  brass  ware,  dainty  ornaments  of  native 
manufacturer  were  packed  in  the  bazaars  and  shipped  away  to  those 
fortunate  brothers,  sisters,  and  cousins  of  Frangois  in  the  French  cap- 
ital. Only  once  in  twenty-three  years  had  he  visited  them,  but  few 
were  the  towns  and  cities  of  all  Europe  the  arts  and  manufactures  of 
which  were  not  represented  in  that  Parisian  household.  As  a  sup- 
plement to  his  gifts,  there  came  semi-annually  a  letter  from  Frangois, 
announcing  some  new  success  in  his  career  as  a  traveling  salesman. 


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CHAPTER  X 

THE   LAND   OF   THE    NILE 

ONE  fine  morning,  some  two  weeks  after  my  introduction  to 
Tom,  I  vacated  my  post  in  the  consul's  household  and  set 
about  laying  plans  for  a  journey  up  the  Nile.  My  wages  had 
not  been  reckoned  on  the  American  scale,  but  for  all  that  I  was  a  man 
of  comparative  affluence  when  I  turned  off  the  Moosky  for  my  last 
visit  to  the  headquarters  of  "the  union." 

The  German  is  nothing  if  not  systematic,  be  he  prime  minister  or 
errant  adventurer.  The  Teutonic  tramp  does  not  wander  at  random 
through  lands  of  which  his  knowledge  is  chaotic  or  nil.  He  profits 
by  %e  experience  of  his  fellow-ramblers.  If  he  covers  an  unknown 
route,  he  returns  with  a  notebook  full  of  information  for  his  fellows. 
Thanks  to  this  method,  the  German  beggar  colony  of  Cairo  had  long 
contained  a  bureau  of  information  to  which  many  a  vagabond  of  other 
nationality  bewailed  his  linguistic  inability  to  gain  access.  The  ar- 
chives of  "  the  union  "  were  particularly  rich  in  Egyptian  lore.  For 
there  is  but  one  route  in  Egypt.  He  who  has  once  journeyed  up  or 
down  the  Nile,  with  open  eyes,  is  an  authority  on  the  whole  country. 

Several  of  die  Kunde  were  romping  about  on  as  many  vermin  colo- 
nies when  I  entered,  on  this  February  afternoon,  the  room  in  which 
Pia  was  accustomed  to  pen  his  eleemosynary  masterpieces.  It  was  an 
informal  and  chance  gathering  that  included  nearly  every  authority 
in  "  the  union  "  on  the  territory  beyond  the  Tombs  of  the  Mamelukes. 
My  projected  journey  awakened  great  interest  in  all  the  group. 

**  As  for  myself,"  said  Pia,  "  I  can't  see  why  you  go.  Most  of  the 
comrades  do,  of  course,  but  they  will  make  the  journey  worth  while. 
As  for  a  man  who  will  only  work!  Pah!  You  will  starve  and  die 
in  the  sands  up  there." 

The  emaciated  door  was  kicked  open  and  a  burly  young  man  entered 
and  threw  himself  across  the  foot  of  one  of  the  cots. 

"  Ah,  now,"  Pia  went  on,  "  there  is  Heinrich.  He  is  going  up  the 
Nile  too,  in  a  few  days.     He  's  been  up  six  times  already.     Why  don't 

215 


2i6       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

you  go  up  with  him?     He  knows  all  the  ropes  and  you,  being  an 
American  — " 

"Was!"  roared  the  newcomer,  "  Ein  Amerikaner?  Going  up  the 
river  ?  Shake,  mein  lieber !  We  go  up  together !  We  '11  do  more 
business  — " 

"  But  if  I  go  up,  I  '11  spend  considerable  time  sight-seeing  — " 

"Sights?  There's  something  I  never  could  understand.  All  the 
tourists  go  up  to  see  sights!  Thank  the  Lord  they  do;  what  would 
the  business  be  without  them  ?  But  what  the  devil  do  they  see  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  dry,  choking  sand,  with  nothing  but  dirty  Nile  water 
to  wash  it  off  your  face  and  out  of  your  throat !  A  lot  of  smashed-up 
rocks,  covered  with  pictures  of  hens  and  roosters,  all  red  hot  under 
the  cursed  sun  that  never  stops  blazing.  And  besides  that,  niggers  — 
millions  of  dirty  niggers,  blind  niggers,  and  half-blind  niggers  who 
do  nothing  but  crawl  around  after  decent  white  men  and  beg. 
That 's  all  there  is  in  Egypt,  if  you  go  up  the  Nile,  till  you  come  to  the 
sudd-fields  of  Uganda." 

"  Well  what  do  you  go  up  for?  "  I  asked.  Even  this  brief  acquaint- 
ance with  Heinrich  convinced  me  that  he  would  die  the  death  of  a 
martyr  rather  than  disgrace  die  Kamaraden  by  working. 

"  What  for?  Why  so  I  won't  starve,  to  be  sure.  If  I  could  wiggle 
the  feather  and  paint  like  Otto  there,  I  'd  see  hell  freeze  over  before 
I  'd  move  a  mile  south  of  Cairo.  But  I  can't,  so  I  must  go  over  the 
soft-hearted  ones  again.  I  've  worked  'em  pretty  hard  the  last  two 
years,  but  the  game  's  good  yet.  I  've  grown  this  beard  since  the  last 
trip,  and  got  a  new  story  all  bolstered  up.  I  'm  a  civil  engineer  this 
time,  with  a  wife  and  three  children  here  in  Cairo.  Going  up,  I  '11 
be  making  for  the  Berber-Suakim  line,  after  spending  all  I  had  on  the 
kid's  doctor  bills.  Coming  down,  it 's  the  fever  story  —  that 's  al- 
ways good  —  or  my  wife  is  dying  and,  if  we  can  get  her  back  to  Ham- 
burg before  she  croaks,  she  '11  get  an  inheritance  her  uncle  just  left 
her.  Pretty  neat  that,  eh  ?  "  grinned  Heinrich,  turning  to  his  admiring 
mates.  "  Thought  that  out  one  night  when  I  could  n't  sleep.  Brand 
new,  is  n't  it  ?  Aber,  Gott,  mein  lieber,"  he  addressed  me  once  more, 
"  if  you  '11  only  come  along !  I  can't  speak  English,  and  most  of  the 
soft  ones  know  my  face.  But  I  '11  point  out  everyone  of  them  from 
here  to  Assuan.     I  '11  lay  low  and  we  '11  share  even." 

I  declined  to  enter  into  an  offensive  alliance  against  the  "  soft  ones," 
however,  and  turned  to  Pia  for  the  information  which  he  had  once 
promised  to  give  me.    While  he  talked,  every  other  lounger  in  the  room 


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S.5 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  217 

added  his  voice  from  time  to  time ;  and  from  deep  wells  of  experience  I 
gleaned  a  long  list  of  names,  flanked  by  biographical  details,  as  we 
journeyed  mentally  up  the  river.  This  vagabond's  edition  of  "  Who  's 
Who  in  Egypt "  completed,  Pia  laid  down  several  rules  of  the  road. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  go  up,"  he  began.  "  You  can  make  a  fortune 
right  here.  If  you  are  determined  to  go,  get  a  good  story  and  al- 
ways stick  to  it,  changing  it  enough  to  fit  different  cases.  Some,  it 
will  pay  you  to  ask  for  work  —  you  know  the  breed;  others,  just  ask 
for  money.  Take  anything  they  give  you.  You  can  sell  it  if  you  don't 
want  it.  Always  see  the  big  men  long  before  train  time.  They  will 
often  offer  to  buy  you  a  ticket  to  wherever  you  want  to  go;  and,  if  the 
train  is  soon  due,  they  may  go  to  the  station  and  buy  it.  But  if  you 
touch  them  long  before  train  time,  they  may  give  you  the  money  and  go 
back  to  business.  Then  you  can  spend  a  couple  of  piastres  to  the  next 
station  and  work  that  the  same  way.  The  sugar  factories  are  all  good 
—  they  '11  even  give  you  work,  perhaps,  if  you  are  fool  enough  to  take 
it.  Always  hit  the  young  Englishmen.  They  're  almost  all  of  them 
adventurers  with  nothing  much  to  do  with  their  money.  When  you 
catch  a  missionary,  make  him  take  up  a  collection  for  you  among  the 
native  Christians.  He  must  do  it,  by  the  rules  of  the  Board  of  Mis- 
sions. 

"  The  ticket  game  is  always  best.  If  you  get  three  or  four 
men  in  each  town  to  give  you  the  price  to  Assiut  or  Assuan,  you  can 
make  the  trip  in  a  month  and  pick  up  good  money.  When  you  get  a 
lot  of  silver,  change  it  at  any  of  Cook's  offices  into  gold  sovereigns  and 
sew  them  up  in  your  clothes.  Be  sure  not  to  let  any  money  rattle 
when  you  're  spinning  a  hard-luck  yarn.  And  don't  be  a  fool,  like 
some  of  the  comrades  who  have  gone  up  for  one  trip.  They  pump 
a  town  dry,  and,  not  satisfied  to  wait  until  they  hit  Cairo  again,  go  on 
a  blow-out  and  lie  around  drunk  for  a  week  where  those  who  gave 
them  ticket  money  can  see  them.  That  queers  the  burg  for  the  next 
six  months.  Of  course  you  know  enough  to  be  of  the  same  church, 
and  very  pious,  when  you  hit  a  missionary,  and  to  be  from  the  same 
state  when  you  touch  an  American  ?  Above  all  never  let  a  boat  load  of 
tourists- go  by  without  touching  them.  Always  go  down  to  the  dock 
and  make  enough  noise  so  that  they  all  hear  you.  Some  of  the  boys 
who  are  good  at  it  throw  a  fit  when  they  get  in  a  crowd  of  rich  ones. 
But  as  you  talk  English,  a  good  tale  of  woe  will  do  as  well.  When  you 
get  well  up  the  river,  and  a  good  tan,  and  a  couple  of  weeks'  beard, 
spring  the  old  yarn  of  *  lost  my  job  and  must  get  down  to  Cairo.' 


218       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

And  always  wait  for  a  train.  You  '11  miss  the  whole  game  if  you  walk ; 
and  you  '11  die  of  sunstroke,  besides." 

In  the  face  of  Pia's  warning,  I  left  Cairo  on  foot  the  next  morning, 
and,  crossing  the  Nile,  turned  southward  along  a  ridge  of  shifting  sand 
beyond  the  village  of  Gizeh.  Along  an  irrigating  ditch,  that  flanked 
the  ridge,  scores  of  shadufs,  those  human  paradigms  of  perpetual  mo- 
tion, were  ceaselessly  dipping,  dipping,  the  water  that  gives  life  to  the 
fields  of  Egypt.  Between  the  canal  and  the  sparkling  Nile,  groups 
of  fellahs,  deaf  to  the  blatant  sunshine,  set  out  sugar  cane  or  clawed 
the  soil  of  the  arid  plain.  On  the  desert  wind  rode  the  never-ceasing 
squawk  of  the  sakka,  or  Egyptian  water-wheel. 

Beyond  the  pyramids  of  Sakkara,  I  sought  shelter  in  the  palm 
groves  that  cover  the  site  of  ancient  Memphis,  and  took  my  siesta  on 
the  recumbent  statue  of  Rameses.  A  backsheesh-thirsty  village  rose 
up  to  cut  off  my  return  to  the  sandy  road,  and  forced  me  to  run  a 
gauntlet  of  out-stretched  hands.  'Tis  the  national  anthem  of  Egypt, 
this  cry  of  backsheesh.  Workmen  at  their  labor,  women  bound  for 
market,  children  rooting  in  the  streets,  drop  all  else  to  surge  after  the 
faranchee  who  may  be  induced  to  "  sprinkle  iron  "  among  them.  Even 
the  unclothed  infant  astride  a  mother's  shoulder  thrusts  forth  a  dimpled 
hand  to  the  passing  white  man  with  a  gurgle  of  "  sheesh." 

As  darkness  came  on  I  reached  the  railway  station  of  Mazgoona, 
some  thirty  miles  from  Cairo.  The  village  lay  far  off  to  the  eastward  ; 
but  the  station  master  invited  me  to  supper  and  spread  a  quilt  bed  in 
the  telegraph  office. 

A  biting  wind  blew  from  the  north  when  I  set  out  again  in  the  morn- 
ing. A  hundred  yards  from  the  station,  a  cry  of  "  monsoor  "  was 
borne  to  my  ears,  and  a  servant  summoned  me  back  to  his  master's 
office. 

"  I  have  just  received  a  wire,"  said  the  latter,  "  from  the  division 
superintendent.  He  is  coming  on  the  next  train.  Wait  and  ask  him 
for  a  job." 

A  half -hour  later  there  stepped  from  the  north-bound  express,  not 
the  grey-haired  man  I  had  expected,  but  a  beardless  English  youth 
who  could  not  have  been  a  day  over  twenty.  It  was  a  new  experience 
to  apply  for  work  to  a  man  younger  than  myself,  but  I  respectfully 
stated  my  case. 

"  I  have  n't  a  vacancy  on  my  division  just  at  present,"  said  the  boy. 
"  There  is  plenty  of  work  in  Assiut,  though.  Want  to  go  that  far 
south  ?  " 


"Along  the  way  shadoofs  were  ceaselessly  dipping  up  the  water 
that  gives  life  to  the  fields  of  Egypt" 


The  "Tombs  of  the  Kings"  from  the  top  of  the  Libyan  range,  to 
which  I  climbed  above  the  plain  of  Thebes 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  219 

B"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

He  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket  and  scribbled  on  it  two  fantastic 
Arabic  characters. 

"  Take  the  third-class  coach,"  he  said,  handing  me  the  pass.  "  This 
covers  my  division;  but  you  might  drop  off  in  Beni  Suef  and  look 
about." 

Following  his  advice,  I  halted  near  noonday  at  that  wind-swept  vil- 
lage. There  was  no  need  to  make  inquiry  for  the  European  residents ; 
they  were  all  duly  recorded  in  the  "  comrades'  Baedeker."  As  in  Cairo, 
however,  they  offered  money  in  lieu  of  work,  and  clutched  weakly  at 
the  nearest  support  when  I  refused  it.  A  young  Englishman,  inscribed 
in  my  notes  as  "  Bromley,  Pasha,  Inspector  of  Irrigation ;  quite  easy," 
gave  me  evening  rendezvous  on  the  bank  of  the  canal  beyond  the  vil- 
lage. Long  after  dark  he  appeared  on  horseback,  attended  by  two 
natives  with  flaming  torches,  and,  being  ferried  across  the  canal,  led  the 
way  towards  his  dahabeah,  anchored  at  the  shore  of  the  Nile. 

"  I  fancied  I  'd  find  something  to  put  you  at,"  he  explained,  as  he 
turned  his  horse  over  to  a  jet-black  groom  who  popped  up  out  of  the 
darkness,  "  but  I  did  n't,  and  the  last  train  's  gone.     I  '11  buy  you  a 
ticket  to  Assiut  in  the  morning." 
"  I  have  a  pass,"  I  put  in. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Englishman,  "  well,  you  *11  put  up  with  me  here  to- 
night, anyway." 

He  led  the  way  across  the  gangplank.  The  change  from  the  bleak 
wastes  of  African  sand  to  this  floating  palace  was  as  startling  as  if 
Bromley,  Pasha,  had  been  possessor  of  Aladdin's  lamp.  Richly-tur- 
baned  servants,  in  spotless  white  gowns,  sprang  forward  to  greet  their 
master ;  to  place  a  chair  for  him ;  to  pull  off  his  riding  boots  and  replace 
them  with  slippers;  to  slip  the  Cairo  daily  into  his  hands;  and  sped 
noiselessly  away  to  finish  the  preparation  of  the  evening  meal.  Had 
Bromley,  Pasha,  been  a  fellow  countryman,  I  might  have  enjoyed  the 
pleasure  of  his  company  instead  of  dining  alone  in  the  richly-furnished 
ante-room.  But  Englishmen  of  the  "  upper  classes  "  are  not  noted 
for  their  democratic  spirit,  and  the  good  inspector,  no  doubt,  dreaded 
the  uncouth  table  manners  of  a  plebeian  from  half-civilized  America. 

Breakfast  over,  next  morning,  I  returned  to  the  village  and  de- 
parted on  the  south-bound  express.  The  third-class  coach  was  densely 
packed  with  huddled  natives  and  their  unwieldy  cargo ;  all,  that  is,  ex- 
cept the  bench  around  the  sides,  on  which  a  trio  of  gloomy  Arabs, 
denied  the  privilege  of  squatting  on  the  floor,  perched  like  fowls  on  a 


220      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

roost.  The  air  that  swept  through  the  open  car  was  as  wintry  as 
the  Egyptian  is  wont  to  experience.  Only  the  faces  of  the  males  were 
uncovered.  The  women,  wrapped  like  mummies  in  fold  after  fold  of 
black  gowns,  crouched  utterly  motionless,  well-nigh  indistinguishable 
from  the  bundles  of  baggage.  Even  the  guard,  wading  through  the 
throng,  brought  no  sign  of  life  from  the  prostrate  females;  for  their 
tickets  were  invariably  produced  by  a  male  escort. 

The  congestion  was  somewhat  relieved  at  the  junction  of  the  Fa- 
youm  branch.  The  men  who  had  reached  their  destination  rose  to 
their  feet,  struggled  to  extricate  their  much-tied  bundles,  and  rolled 
them  over  their  fellow  travelers  and  down  the  steps.  Not  a  female 
stirred  during  this  unwonted  activity  of  her  lord  and  master.  When 
he  had  safely  deposited  his  more  valuable  chattels  on  the  platform, 
he  returned  to  grasp  her  by  the  hand  and  drag  her  unceremoniously 
out  the  door. 

Around  the  train  swarmed  hawkers  of  food.  Dates,  boiled  eggs, 
baked  fish,  oranges,  and  soggy  bread-cakes,  in  quantity  sufficient  to 
have  supplied  an  army,  were  thrust  upon  whomever  ventured  to  peer 
outside.  From  the  neighboring  fields  came  workmen  laden  down  with 
freshly  cut  bundles  of  sugar  cane,  to  give  the  throng  the  appearance 
of  a  forest  in  motion.  Three  great  canes,  as  long  and  unwieldy  as 
bamboo  fish  rods,  sold  at  a  small  piastre,  and  hardly  a  native  in  the  car 
purchased  less  than  a  half-dozen.  By  the  time  we  were  off  again,  the 
coach  had  been  converted  into  a  fodder  bin. 

The  canes  were  broken  into  two-foot  lengths,  and  each  purchaser, 
grasping  a  section  in  his  hands,  bit  into  it,  and,  jerking  his  head  from 
side  to  side  like  a  bulldog,  tore  off  a  strip.  Then  with  a  sucking  that 
was  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  train,  he  extracted  the  juice  and  cast 
the  pulp  on  the  floor  about  him.  At  each  station,  new  arrivals  squatted 
on  the  festive  remnants  left  by  their  predecessors  and  spat  industriously 
at  the  valleys  which  marked  the  resting  places  of  the  departed.  The 
pulp  dried  rapidly,  and  by  noonday  the  floor  of  the  car  was  carpeted 
with  a  sugar-cane  mat  several  inches  thick. 

My  pass  ran  out  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  I  set  ofif  to  canvass  the 
metropolis  of  upper  Egypt.  Several  Europeans  had  already  expressed 
their  regrets  when,  towards  evening,  I  caught  sight  of  the  stars  and 
stripes  waving  over  an  unusually  large  building.  I  turned  in  at  the 
gate  and  made  inquiry  of  a  native  grubbing  in  the  yard. 

"  Thees  house  ?  "  he  cried,  "  you  not  know  what  thees  is  ?  Thees 
American  Hospital." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  221 

I  drew  out  my  notes.  Beneath  the  name  of  the  hospital  appeared 
this  entry :  — "  Dr.  Henry  and  Dr.  Bullock,  Americans ;  easy  marks ; 
very  religious." 

**  Come  and  see  house,"  invited  the  native.     "  Very  beeg." 

He  led  the  way  to  one  side  of  the  building,  where  nearly  a  hundred 
natives,  suffering  with  every  small  ailment  from  festered  legs  to  tooth- 
ache, were  huddled  disconsolately  about  the  office  stairway. 

''  Thees  man  come  get  cured,"  said  my  guide.  "  Thees  not  sick  nuff 
go  bed.  American  Doctors  very  good,  except " —  and  his  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper  — "  wants  all  to  be  Christian." 

The  patients  filed  into  the  office,  emerged  with  cards  in  their  hands, 
and  crowded  about  the  door  of  the  dispensary.  As  the  last  emaciated 
wretch  limped  away,  a  slender,  middle-aged  white  man  descended 
the  steps. 

"  Thees  Dr.  Henry,"  whispered  the  native.  "  Doctor,  thees  man  be 
American." 

I  tendered  my  letter  of  introduction  from  the  American  consulate. 

**  A  mechanical  engineer !  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  Fine !  Just  the 
man  we  are  looking  for.     Come  with  me." 

An  engineer  I  was  not  —  of  any  species.  That  profession  had  been 
forced  upon  me  by  the  carelessness  of  Mr.  Morgan's  secretary.  But 
there  flashed  suddenly  across  my  mind  the  saying  of  an  erstwhile  em- 
ployer in  California :  — "  When  you  're  looking  for  work,  never  admit 
there  's  anything  you  can't  do."     I  followed  after  the  doctor. 

At  the  rear  of  the  establishment.  Dr.  Bullock  and  a  well-dressed 
native  were  superintending  the  labors  of  a  band  of  Egyptians,  grub- 
bing about  the  edge  of  a  large  reservoir. 

**  Now,  here  is  the  problem,"  said  the  older  man,  when  he  had  in- 
troduced me  to  his  colleague.  **  This  reservoir  is  our  water  supply. 
It  is  filled  by  the  inundations  of  the  Nile.  But  towards  the  end  of  the 
dry  season  the  water  gets  so  low  that  our  force-pump  will  not  raise 
it.  The  native  engineer  whom  we  have  called  in  is  a  graduate  of  the 
best  technical  school  in  Cairo.  But  —  ah  —  er  " —  his  voice  fell  low  — 
"  you  know  what  natives  are?     Now  what  do  you  suggest?" 

Compelled  to  spar  for  wind,  I  asked  to  be  shown  the  pump  and  to 
have  the  reservoir  sounded.  The  native  engineer  hung  on  our  heels, 
listening  for  any  words  of  wisdom  that  might  fall  from  my  lips. 
Fortunately,  I  had  once  seen  a  similar  difficulty  righted. 

"  There  are  two  possible  solutions  of  the  trouble,"  I  began,  in  an 
authoritative  voice,  swinging  round  until  the  native  appeared  on  the 


222       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

edge  of  my  field  of  vision.  *'  The  first  is  to  buy  a  much  more  powerful 
pump  " —  the  native  scowled  blackly  — "  the  second  is  to  build  a  smaller 
reservoir  halfway  up,  get  another  small  pump,  and  — er  —  relay  the 
water  to  the  top."  The  engineer  was  smiling  blandly  at  the  doctors' 
backs.  "  Now  the  first  would  be  costly.  The  second  requires  only  a 
few  yards  of  pipe,  a  cheap  pump,  and  a  bit  of  excavating." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  the  native,  rushing  forward,  *'  That  is  my  idea  exactly, 
0nly  I  did  not  wish  to  say  — " 

"  Bah !  "  interrupted  Dr.  Henry,  "  Your  idea !  Why  don't  you  fel- 
lows ever  have  an  idea  until  someone  else  gives  you  one  ?  I  'm  glad, 
Dr.  Bullock,  that  we  've  got  a  man  at  last  who  — " 

*'  Yes,"  I  repeated,  "  I  should  put  in  two  pumps,  by  all  means." 

"  I  '11  send  in  the  order  to  Cairo  to-night,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Bring 
your  men  in  the  morning,  efendee,  and  set  them  to  digging  the  res- 
ervoir.    You  don't  need  another  man  to  help  you  on  that,  I  hope  ? " 

"  You  will  find  little  work  in  Assiut,  just  now,"  he  went  on,  as  we 
entered  the  hospital.  "  By  all  means  go  to  Assuan.  There  is  employ- 
ment for  every  class  of  mechanic  on  the  barrage.  I  suppose  two  dol- 
lars will  about  cover  your  fee  ?  "  He  dropped  four  ten-piastre  pieces 
into  my  hand.  "  But  you  must  stay  to  supper  with  us.  We  have  one 
bed  unoccupied,  too ;  but  three  men  have  died  in  it  in  the  past  month, 
and  if  you  are  superstitious  — " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  protested. 

I  rose  long  before  daylight  next  morning,  and  groped  my  way  to 
the  station.  A  ticket  to  Luxor  took  barely  half  my  fee  as  consult- 
ing engineer.  At  break  of  day,  the  railway  crossed  to  the  eastern 
bank,  and  at  the  next  station  the  train  stood  motionless  while  driver, 
trainmen,  and  passengers  executed  their  morning  prayers  in  the  desert 
sand.  Beyond,  the  chimneys  of  great  sugar  refineries  belched  forth 
dense  clouds  of  smoke,  and  at  every  halt  shivering  urchins  offered  for 
sale  the  crude  product  of  the  factories,  cone-shaped  lumps,  dark-brown 
in  color. 

The  voice  of  the  south  spoke  more  distinctly  with  every  mile.  We 
were  approaching,  now,  the  district  where  rain  and  dew  are  utterly 
unknown.  The  desert  grew  more  arid,  the  whirling  sand  finer,  more 
penetrating.  The  natives,  already  of  darker  hue  than  the  cinnamon- 
xi:olored  Cairene,  grew  blacker  and  blacker.  The  chilling  wind  of 
two  days  past  turned  tepid,  then  piping  hot,  and,  ere  we  drew  into 
Luxor,  Egypt  lay,  as  of  old,  under  her  mantle  of  densest  sunshine. 

The  tourist  colony  of  Luxor,  housed  in  two  great  faranchee  hotels, 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  223 

would  be  incomplete  without  a  rendezvous  for  "  the  comrades." 
Close  by  the  station  squats  a  tumble-down  shack,  styled  the  "  Hotel 
Economica,"  wherein,  dreaming  away  his  old  age  over  a  cigarette, 
sits  Pietro  Saggharia.  Pietro  was  a  "  comrade  "  once.  His  tales  of 
**  the  road,"  gleaned  in  forty  years  of  errant  residence  in  Africa,  and 
couched  in  almost  any  tongue  the  listener  may  choose,  are  to  be  had  for 
a  kind  word,  even  while  the  exiled  Greek  is  serving  the  forbidden 
liquor  to  blacksliding  Mohammedans  and  the  white  wanderers  who 
take  shelter  beneath  his  roof. 

I  left  my  knapsack  in  Pietro's  keeping  and  struck  off  for  the  great 
ruins  of  Karnak.  The  society  intrusted  with  the  preservation  of  the 
monuments  of  upper  Egypt  has  put  each  important  ruin  in  charge  of 
a  guardian,  and  denies  admittance  to  all  who  leave  Cairo  without  a 
ticket  issued  by  the  society.  The  price  thereof  is  little  short  of  a 
vagabond's  fortune.  I  journeyed  to  Karnak,  therefore,  resolved  to  be 
content  with  a  view  of  her  row  of  sphinxes  and  a  circuit  of  her  outer 
walls. 

About  the  approach  to  the  ancient  palaces  the  seekers  after  back- 
sheesh held  high  court.  Before  I  had  shaken  off  the  last  screeching 
youth,  I  came  upon  a  great  iron  gate  that  shut  out  the  unticketed, 
and  paused  to  peer  through  the  bars  for  a  glimpse  of  the  much- 
heralded  interior.  On  the  ground  before  the  barrier  squatted  a  sleek, 
well-fed  native.  He  rose  and  announced  himself  as  the  guard;  but 
made  no  attempt  to  drive  me  off. 

"  You  don't  see  much  from  here,"  he  said,  in  Arabic,  as  I  turned 
away.  "  Have  you  already  seen  the  temple  ?  Or  perhaps  you  have  no 
ticket?" 

"  La,  ma  f eesh,"  I  replied ;  "  therefore  I  must  stay  outside." 

"  Ah !  Then  you  are  no  tourist  ?  "  smiled  the  native.  "  Are  you 
English?" 

"  Aywa,"  I  answered,  for  the  Arabic  term  "  inglesi "  covers  all  who 
speak  that  tongue,  "  but  no  tourist,  merely  a  workingman." 

"  Ah,"  sighed  the  guard,  "  too  bad  you  are  an  inglesi  then ;  for  if 
you  spoke  French,  the  superintendent  of  the  excavations  is  a  good 
friend  of  workingmen.     But  he  speaks  no  English." 

"Where  shall  I  find  him?" 

"  In  the  office  just  over  the  hill,  there." 

I  took  the  direction  indicated,  and  came  upon  a  temporary  structure, 
before  which  an  aged  European  sat  motionless  in  a  rocking  chair. 


224      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

About  him  was  scattered  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  statues,  broken 
and  whole. 

**  Are  you  the  superintendent,  sir  ?  "  I  asked,  in  French. 

The  octogenarian  frowned,  but  answered  not  a  word.  I  repeated 
the  question  in  a  louder  voice. 

"  Va  t'en !  "  shrieked  the  old  man,  grasping  a  heavy  cane  that  leaned 
against  his  chair  and  shaking  it  feebly  at  me.  "  Go  away !  You  're  a 
beggar.     I  know  you  are." 

Evidently  the  fourth  layer  of  shirt  bosom,  uncovered  specially  for 
the  occasion,  had  failed  in  its  mission.  I  pleaded  a  case  of  mistaken 
identity.  The  aged  Frenchman  watched  me  with  the  half-closed  eyes 
of  a  cat,  clinging  to  his  stick. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  the  superintendent  ?  "  he  demanded.  . 

"  To  work,  if  he  has  any.     If  not,  to  see  the  temple." 

"  You  will  not  ask  him  for  money  ?  " 

"  By  no  means." 

"  Bien !  En  ce  cas  —     Maghmood,"  he  coughed. 

A  native  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  shanty. 

"  My  son  is  the  superintendent,"  said  the  old  man,  displaying  a 
grotesque  pattern  of  wrinkles  that  was  meant  for  a  smile.  "  Follow 
Maghmood." 

The  son,  an  affable  young  Frenchman  attired  in  the  thinnest  of 
white  trousers  and  an  open  shirt,  was  bowed  over  a  small  stone 
covered  with  hieroglyphics.     I  made  known  my  errand. 

"  Work  ?  "  he  replied,  "  No.  Unfortunately  the  society  allows  us  to 
hire  only  natives.  I  wish  I  might  have  a  few  Europeans  to  superin- 
tend the  excavations.  But  I  am  always  pleased  to  find  a  workman 
interested  in  the  antiquities.  You  are  as  free  to  go  inside  as  if  you  had 
a  ticket.  But  it  is  midday  now.  How  do  you  escape  a  sunstroke  with 
only  that  cap  ?  You  had  better  sit  here  in  the  shade  until  the  heat  dies 
down  a  bit." 

I  assured  him  that  the  Egyptian  sun  had  no  evil  effects  upon  me 
and  he  stepped  to  the  door  to  shout  an  order  to  the  sleek  gate- 
keeper just  out  of  sight  over  the  hill.  That  official  grinned  knowingl}" 
as  I  appeared,  unlocked  the  gate,  and,  fending  off  with  one  hand  several 
elusive  urchins,  admitted  me  to  the  noonday  solitude  of  the  forest  of 
pillars. 

As  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen,  a  flock  of  "  Cookies  "  invaded 
the  sacred  precincts,  and,  stumbling  through  the  ruins  in  pursuit  of 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  225 

their  shepherds,  two  dragomans  of  phonographical  erudition,  awoke 
the  dormant  echoes  with  their  bleating.  With  their  departure,  came 
less  precipitous  mortals,  weighed  down  under  cameras  and  note- 
books. Interest  centered  in  one  animated  corner  of  the  enclosure. 
There,  in  the  latest  excavation,  an  army  of  men  and  boys  toiled  at 
the  shadufs  that  raised  the  sand  and  the  water  which  the  sluiceways 
poured  into  the  pit  to  loosen  the  soil.  Other  natives,  naked  but  for 
a  loin-cloth,  groped  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom,  eager  to  win  the  small 
reward  offered  to  the  discoverer  of  each  archaeological  treasure. 

•  One  such  prize  was  captured  during  the  afternoon.  A  small  boy, 
half*buried  in  the  ooze,  suddenly  ceased  his  wallowing  with  a  shrill 
shriek  of  triumph;  and  came  perilously  near  being  trampled  out  of 
sight  by  his  fellow-workmen.  In  a  twinkling,  half  the  band,  amid  a 
mighty  uproar  of  shouting  and  splashing,  was  tugging  at  some  heavy 
object  still  hidden  from  view. 

They  raised  it  at  last, —  a  female  figure  in  blue  stone,  some  four 
feet  in  length,  which  had  suffered  downfall,  burial,  and  the  on- 
slaughts of  the  Arab  horde  without  apparent  injury.  The  news  of  the 
discovery  was  quickly  carried  to  the  shanty  on  the  hill.  In  a  great  pith 
helmet  that  gave  him  a  striking  resemblance  to  a  walking  toadstool,  the 
superintendent  hurried  down  to  the  edge  of  the  pit  and  gave  orders 
that  the  statue  be  carried  to  a  level  space,  about  which  a  throng 
of  excited  tourists  lay  in  wait  with  open  notebooks.  There  it  was 
carefully  washed  with  sponges,  gloated  over  by  the  aforementioned 
tourists,  and  placed  on  a  car  of  the  tiny  railway  system  laid  through 
the  ruins.  Natives,  in  number  sufficient  to  have  moved  one  of  Karnak's 
mighty  pillars,  tailed  out  on  the  rope  attached  to  the  car,  and,  moving 
to  the  rhythm  of  a  weird  Arabic  song  of  rejoicing,  dragged  the  new 
find  through  the  temple  and  deposited  it  at  the  feet  of  the  aged 
Frenchman. 

As  evening  fell,  I  turned  back  to  the  Hotel  Economica.  Several 
"  comrades  "  had  gathered,  but  neither  they  nor  Pietro  could  give  me 
information  concerning  the  land  across  the  Nile,  which  I  proposed 
to  visit  next  day.  The  Greek  knew  naught  of  the  ruins  of  Thebes, 
save  the  anecdote  of  a  former  guest,  who  had  attempted  the  excursion 
and  returned  wild  with  thirst,  mumbling  an  incoherent  tale  of  having 
floundered  in  seas  of  sand. 

"  For  our  betters,"  said  Pietro,  in  the  softened  Italian  in  which  he 
chose  to  address  me.  "  For  the  rich  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  can 
ride  on  donkeys  and  be  guarded  by  many  dragomans,  a  visit  to  Thebes 


226       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

is  very  well.  But  common  folk  like  you  and  I !  Bah !  We  are  not 
wanted  there.  They  would  send  no  army  to  look  for  us  if  we  disap- 
peared in  the  desert.  Besides,  you  must  have  a  ticket  to  see  any- 
thing." 

I  drew  from  my  pocket  the  folders  of  the  Egyptian  tourist  com- 
panies. A  party  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  steamer,  tied  up  before  the 
temple  of  Luxor,  was  scheduled  to  leave  for  an  excursion  to  Thebes 
in  the  morning.  What  easier  plan  than  to  shadow  these  more  for- 
tunate nomads? 

Fearful  of  being  left  behind,  I  rose  at  dawn  and  hastened  away 
to  the  bazaars  to  make  provision  for  the  day  —  bread-cakes  for  hunger 
and  oranges  for  thirst.  A  native  boatman,  denied  a  fee  of  ten  piastres, 
accepted  one,  and  set  me  down  on  the  western  bank.  The  shrill 
screams  of  a  troop  of  donkey  boys,  embarking  their  animals  below  the 
temple,  greeted  the  rising  sun.  Not  long  after  their  landing  a  van- 
guard of  three  veiled  and  helmeted  tourists  stepped  ashore,  and,  mount- 
ing as  many  animals,  sped  away  into  the  trackless  desert.  I  followed 
them  as  swiftly  as  was  consistent  with  faranchee  dignity  until  the 
last  resounding  whack  of  a  donkey  boy's  stave  came  faintly  to  my  ear ; 
then  sat  down  to  await  the  next  section.  The  inhabitants  of  a  mud 
village  swooped  down  upon  me,  and,  convinced  that  I  had  fallen  from 
my  donkey,  sought  to  force  upon  me  a  score  of  wabbly-kneed  beasts. 
My  refusal  to  choose  one  of  these  "  ver'  cheap,  ver'  fine  "  animals  was 
taken  as  an  attempt  at  facetiousness,  which  it  was  to  their  interests  as 
prospective  beneficiaries  to  roar  at  with  delight.  When  the  supposed 
cansfrd  waxed  serious,  their  mirth  turned  to  virulence,  and  I  was  in  a 
fair  way  to  be  mounted  by  force  when  the  steamer  party  rode  down 
upon  us. 

'Twas  an  inspiring  sight.  The  half-mile  train  of  donkeys  that 
trailed  off  across  the  desert  was  bestridden  by  every  condition  of 
Anglo-Saxon  from  raw-boned  scientists  and  diaphanous  maidens  to  the 
corpulent  matrons  and  mighty  masses  of  self-made  men  whose  inces- 
santly belabored  animals  brought  up  the  rear.  I  kept  pace  with  the 
band  and  even  outstripped  the  stragglers.  After  an  hour's  swift 
march,  that  left  me  dripping  with  perspiration,  the  party  dismounted 
to  inspect  a  temple.  Gates  were  there  none,  and  what  two  guardians 
could  examine  the  tickets  of  such  a  band  all  at  once?  I  had  satis- 
fied my  antiquarian  tastes  before  an  observant  dragoman  pointed 
me  out  to  the  officials,  and  my  consequent  exit  gave  me  just  the  time 


I 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  227 

needed  to  empty  the  sand  from  my  slippers  before  the  cavalcade  set 
off  again. 

The  sharp  ascent  to  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings  was  more  irksome  to 
an  over-burdened  ass  than  to  a  pedestrian.  Even  though  the  jeering 
donkey  boys  succeeded  in  pocketing  me  in  the  narrow  gorges,  it  was  I 
who  carried  news  of  the  advancing  throng  to  the  gate  of  the  mauso- 
leum. A  native  lieutenant  of  police  was  on  hand  to  offer  assistance 
to  the  keeper  against  the  unticketed.  But  the  lieutenant  spoke  Italian, 
and  was  so  delighted  to  find  that  he  could  hold  converse  with  me 
without  being  understood  by  the  surrounding  rabble,  that  he  gave  me 
permission  to  enter,  in  face  of  the  gate  tender's  protest. 

Sufficiently  orientated  now  to  find  my  way  alone,  I  took  silent 
leave  of  the  party  and  struck  southward  towards  a  precipitous 
cliff  of  stone  and  sand.  To  pass  this  barrier  the  bedonkeyed  must 
make  a  circuit  of  many  miles.  Clinging  to  crack  and  crevice,  I  began 
the  ascent.  HalfWay  up,  a  roar  of  voices  sounded  from  the  plain  be- 
low. I  groped  for  a  safer  hand  hold  and  looked  down.  About  the 
lieutenant  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  was  grouped  the  official  party, 
gazing  upward,  confirmed  now,  no  doubt,  in  their  earlier  suspicion 
that  I  was  some  madman  at  large.  Before  their  circuit  of  the  moun- 
tain had  well  begun,  I  had  reached  the  summit  above  the  goal  from 
which  they  were  separated  by  many  a  weary  mile. 

The  view  that  spread  out  from  the  rarely  visited  spot  might  well 
have  awakened  the  envy  of  the  tourists  below.  North  and  south, 
unadorned  by  a  vestige  of  verdure,  stretched  the  Lybian  range,  deep 
vermilion  in  the  valleys,  the  salient  peaks  splashed  blood-red  by  the 
homicidal  sunshine.  Below  bourgeoned  the  plain  of  Thebes,  its  thick 
green  carpet  weighted  down  by  a  few  fellaheen  villages  and  the  pon- 
derous playthings  of  an  ancient  civilization.  As  the  eye  wandered,  a 
l^rimeval  saying  took  on  new  meaning :  — *'  Egypt  is  the  Nile." 
Tightly  to  the  life-giving  river,  distinctly  visible  in  this  marvelous 
atmosphere  for  a  hundred  miles,  clung  the  slender  land  of  Egypt,  a 
spotless  ribbon  of  richest  green,  following  every  contour  of  the 
I  ather  of  Waters.  All  else  was  but  a  limitless  sea  of  yellow,  choking 
sand. 

I  descended  to  the  Tomb  of  Queen  Hatasu  and  spent  the  afternoon 
among  the  ruins  on  the  edge  of  the  plain.  Arriving  alone  and  unan- 
nounced, I  had  little  difficulty  in  entering  where  I  chose.  For  were 
the  guardian  not  asleep,  I  had  only  to  refuse  to  understand  his  Arabic 


228       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

and  his  excited  gestures,  until  I  had  examined  each  monument  to  my 
heart's  content.  I  had  passed  the  Colossi  of  Memnon  before  the 
tourists,  jaded  and  drooping  from  a  day  in  the  saddle,  overtook  me, 
and  I  made  headway  against  them  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  There 
they  shook  me  off,  however.  The  dragomans  in  charge  of  the  party 
snarled  in  anger  when  I  offered  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  embark- 
ing in  the  company  boat.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do,  much  as  I  re- 
belled against  the  recrimination,  but  to  be  ferried  over  with  the  don- 
keys. 

I  departed,  next  day,  by  the  narrow-gauge  railway  to  Assuan,  and 
reached  that  watering  place  of  the  first  cataract  in  time  to  grace  the 
afternoon  concert.  Pietro's  retreat  is  the  last  of  the  chain.  Nearly 
six  hundred  miles,  now,  from  the  headquarters  of  die  Kunde,  I 
was  reduced  again  to  a  native  inn  and  the  companionship  of  a  half- 
barbaric  horde.  It  was  no  such  palace  as  housed  my  fellow-country- 
men on  Elephantine  Island ;  but  the  bedroom  on  the  roof  was  airy,  and 
the  bawling  of  a  muezzin  in  the  minaret  above  summoned  forth  no 
other  faranchee  to  witness  the  gorgeous  birth  of  a  new  day. 

Some  miles  beyond  Assuan  lay  the  new  barrage,  where  work  was 
plentiful.  Just  how  far,  I  could  not  know ;  still  less  that  it  was  con- 
nected with  the  village  by  rail.  From  morning  until  high  noon,  I 
clawed  my  way  along  the  ragged  cliffs  overhanging  the  impoverished 
cataract,  ere  I  came  in  sight  of  the  vast  barrier  that  has  robbed  it  of 
its  waters.  Among  the  rocks  of  what  was  once  the  bed  of  the  Nile, 
sat  a  dozen  wooden  shanties.  From  the  largest,  housing  the  superin- 
tendent, came  sounds  of  revelry,  out  of  all  keeping  with  the  gigantic 
task  at  hand.  It  transpired,  however,  that  this  was  no  ordinary  din- 
ner-hour festival.     I  had  arrived,  as  so  often  before,  mal  a  propos. 

"  Work  ? "  gurgled  the  superintendent,  handing  back  my  papers, 
"  The  bloody  work  is  off  the  slate,  Yank." 

Was  it  the  Egyptian  sun  that  had  made  him  so  merry?  Perhaps. 
But  there  was  more  than  one  bottle,  blown  with  the  name  of  Rheims, 
scattered  in  the  sand  before  the  hut. 

"  Yesh,"  confided  the  Englishman,  "  she  's  all  over,  old  cock.  We  're 
goin'  down  in  the  morning.  A  few  dago  masons  and  the  coolies  will 
mess  about  a  few  weeks  more ;  but  all  these  lads  are,  hick  — *  Sailin' 
'ome  to  merry  England ;  never  more  to  roam,' "  and  his  voiced  pitched 
and  stumbled  over  the  well-known  melody.  "  But  the  man  that  comes 
up  to  work  in  this  murderin'  sun  should  be  paid  for  it,  boys,  even  if 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  229 

it 's  only  a  bloomin'  intention.  'Ere,  lads,  pass  the  'at  for  the  Yank. 
E  can't  go  'ome  to-mor  — "  but  I  was  gone. 

I  was  still  the  proud  possessor  of  fifty  piastres.  That  sum  could 
not  carry  me  down  to  the  Mediterranean ;  for  the  fare  by  train  to  Cairo 
was  sixty-five,  and  the  steamer  rate  of  forty-five  did  not  include  food. 
Moreover,  'tis  the  true  vagabond  spirit  to  push  on  until  the  last  resource 
is  exhausted;  and  what  a  reputation  I  might  win  among  the  Kunde 
by  outstripping  the  best  weaver  of  Marchen  among  them! 

The  railway  was  ended,  but  steamers  departed  twice  a  week  from 
Shellal,  above  the  barrage.  At  the  landing  a  swarm  of  natives  were 
loading  a  dilapidated  barge,  and  a  native  agent  was  dozing  behind  the 
bars  of  a  home-made  ticket  office. 

"Yes,"  he  yawned,  in  answer  to  my  query,  "there  is  to-night 
leaving  steamer.  Soon  be  here.  The  fare  is  two  hundred  and  fifty 
piastres." 

"  Two  hun  — "  I  gasped.    "  Why,  that  must  be  first-class." 

"  Yes,  very  first  class.     But  gentleman  not  wish  travel  second  class  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     Give  me  a  third-class  ticket." 

The  Egyptian  fell  on  his  feet  and  stared  at  me  through  the 
grill. 

"  What  say  gentleman  ?  Third-class !  No !  No !  Not  go  third- 
class.     Second-class  one  hundred  and  eighty  piastres,  very  poor." 

"  But  there  is  a  third-class,  is  n't  there  ?  " 

"  Third-class  go.  Forty  piastres.  But  only  for  Arabs.  White  man 
never  go  third-class.  Not  give  food,  not  give  sleep,  not  ride  on 
steamer ;  ride  on  barge  there,  tied  with  steamer  with  string.  All  gen- 
tlemen telling  me  must  have  European  food.  Gentlemen  not  sleep  with 
boxes  and  horses  on  barge?    Very  Arab;  very  stink — " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  give  me  a  third-class  ticket,"  I  interrupted,  count- 
ing out  forty  piastres. 

The  native  blinked,  sat  down  dejectedly  on  his  stool,  and,  with  a 
sigh  of  resignation,  reached  for  a  ticket.  Suddenly  his  face  lighted 
up  and  he  pushed  my  money  back  to  me. 

"If  white  man  go  third-class,"  he  crowed,  "  must  have  pass  of 
Soudan  gover'ment.     Not  can  sell  ticket  without." 

"  But  how  can  I  get  a  pass  before  I  am  in  the  Soudan  ?  " 

"  There  is  living  English  colonel  with  fort,  far  side  Assuan." 

I  hurried  away  to  the  railway  station.  The  fare  to  Assuan  was  a 
few  cents,  and  one  train  ran  each  way  during  the  afternoon.     But  it 


230      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

made  the  up-trip  first!  I  struck  out  on  the  railroad,  raced  through 
Assuan,  and  tore  my  way  through  the  jungle  to  the  fort,  three  miles 
below  the  village.  A  squad  of  khaki-clad  black  men  flourished  their 
bayonets  uncomfortably  near  my  ribs.  I  bawled  out  my  errand  in 
Arabic,  and  an  officer  waved  the  sentinels  aside. 

"  The  colonel  is  sleeping  now,"  he  said ;  "  come  this  evening." 

"  But  I  want  a  pass  for  this  evening's  steamer." 

"  We  cannot  wake  the  colonel." 

"  Is  there  no  one  else  who  can  sign  the  order  ?  " 

"  Only  the  colonel.     Come  this  evening." 

Order  or  no  order,  I  would  not  be  red-taped  out  of  a  journey  into 
the  Soudan.  I  readjusted  my  knapsack  and  pranced  off  for  the  third 
time  on  the  ten-mile  course  between  Assuan  and  Shellal.  Night  was 
falling  as  I  sped  through  the  larger  village.  When  I  stepped  aside 
for  the  down-train,  my  legs  wobbled  under  me  like  two  pneumatic 
supports  from  which  half  the  air  had  escaped.  The  screech  of  a 
steamboat  whistle  resounded  through  the  Nile  valley  as  I  came  in 
sight  of  the  lights  of  Shellal.  I  broke  into  a  run,  falling,  now  and 
then,  on  the  uneven  ground.  The  sky  was  clear,  but  there  was  no 
moon  and  the  night  was  black  despite  the  stars.  The  deck  hands  were 
already  casting  off  the  shore  lines  of  the  barge,  and  the  steamer  was 
churning  the  shallow  water.  I  pulled  off  my  coat,  threw  it  over 
my  head,  after  the  fashion  in  which  the  fellah  wears  his  gown  after 
nightfall,  and,  thus  slightly  disguised,  dashed  towards  the  ticket 
office. 

"  A  ticket  to  Wady  Haifa,"  I  gasped  in  Arabic,  striving  to  imitate  the 
apologetic  tone  of  an  Egyptian  peasant.  For  once  I  saw  a  native  move 
with  something  like  haste.  The  agent  glanced  at  the  money,  snatched 
a  ticket,  and  thrust  it  through  the  bars,  crying :  "  Hurry  up,  the 
boat  is  go  — "  but  the  white  hand  that  clutched  the  ticket  betrayed  me. 
The  agent  sprang  to  the  door  with  a  howl,  "  Stop !  It 's  the  faranchee  ! 
Come  back — " 

I  caught  up  my  knapsack  as  I  ran,  made  a  flying  leap  at  the  slowly 
receding  barge,  and  landed  on  all  fours  under  the  feet  of  a  troop  of 
horses. 

The  Arab  who  stood  grinning  at  me  as  I  picked  myself  up  was 
evidently  the  only  man  on  the  craft  who  had  witnessed  my  hurried 
embarkation.  He  was  dressed  in  native  garb,  save  for  a  tightly  but- 
toned khaki  jacket.  His  legs  were  bare,  his  feet  thrust  into  low, 
red  slippers.     About  his  head  was  wound  an  ample  turban  of  red  and 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  231 

white  checks,  on  either  cheek  were  the  scars  of  three  long  parallel 
gashes,  and  in  the  top  of  his  right  ear  hung  a  large  silver  ring. 

The  scars  and  ring  announced  him  a  Nubian;  the  jacket,  a  corporal 
of  cavalry;  the  bridle  in  his  hand,  custodian  of  the  horses;  and  any 
blockhead  must  have  known  that  he  answered  to  the  name  of  Magh- 
mood.  We  became  boon  companions,  Maghmood  and  I,  before  the 
journey  ended.  By  night  we  shared  the  same  blanket ;  by  day  he  would 
have  divided  the  contents  of  his  saddlebags  with  me,  had  not  the  black 
men  who  trooped  down  to  each  landing  with  baskets  of  native  food 
made  that  sacrifice  unnecessary.  He  spun  tales  of  his  campaigns  with 
Kitchener  in  a  clear-cut  Arabic  that  even  a  faranchee  must  have  under- 
stood, and,  save  for  the  five  periods  each  day  when  he  stood  barefooted 
at  his  prayers,  was  as  pleasant  a  companion  as  any  denizen  of  the  west- 
ern world  could  have  been. 

When  morning  broke  I  climbed  a  rickety  ladder  to  the  upper  deck. 
It  was  so  densely  packed  from  rail  to  rail  with  huddled  Arabs  that 
a  poodle  could  not  have  found  room  to  sit  on  his  haunches.  I  mounted 
still  higher  and  came  out  upon  the  roof  of  the  barge,  an  uncumbered 
promenade  from  which  I  could  survey  the  vast  panorama  of  the  Nile. 

Its  banks  were  barren,  now.  The  fertile  strips  of  green,  fed  by 
the  shaduf  and  the  sakka,  had  been  left  behind  with  the  land  of 
Egypt.  Except  for  a  few  tiny  oases,  the  aggressive  desert  had  pushed 
its  way  to  the  very  water's  edge,  here  sloping  down  in  beaches  of 
softest  sand,  there  falling  sheer  into  the  stream  in  rugged,  ver- 
dureless  cliffs.  Yet  somewhere  in  this  y-ellow  wilderness  a  nardy 
people  found  sustenance.  Now  and  then  a  peasant  waved  a  hand  or 
a  tattered  flag  from  the  shore,  and  the  steamer  ran  her  nose  high  up 
on  the  beach  to  pick  up  the  bale  of  produce  he  had  rolled  down  the 
slope.  With  every  landing  a  group  of  tawny  barbarians  sprang  up 
from  a  sandy  nowhere  to  slash  from  the  gorgeous  sunlight  fantastic 
shadows  as  black  as  their  own  leathery  skins. 

On  the  level  with  my  promenade  deck  was  that  of  the  first-class 
passengers.  There  were  no  English-speaking  travelers  among  them. 
Half  the  party  were  priests  of  the  Eastern  Church,  phlegmatic,  robust 
men  in  long  black  gowns  and  a  headdress  like  an  inverted  "  stove- 
pipe," beneath  which  a  tangled  thicket  of  hair  and  beard  left  barely 
more  than  nose  and  eyes  visible.  The  laymen,  evidently,  were  of  the 
same  faith.  They  took  part  in  the  religious  services,  and  their  speech 
was  redundant  with  the  softened  S  of  modern  Greek. 

Maghmood,   perhaps,  betrayed  my  confidences.     At  any  rate,   the 


232       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

oily-skinned  Armenian  who  accosted  me  from  the  steamer  in  execrable 
French  knew  more  of  my  affairs  than  I  had  told  to  anyone  but  the 
cavalryman. 

"  My  friends  have  been  wondering,"  he  began,  abruptly,  "  how  you 
will  find  work  in  the  Soudan  if  you  have  not  money  enough  to  go  to 
Khartum,  where  the  work  is?  We  are  all  going  to  Khartum.  The 
venerable  patriarch  there,  with  the  longest  beard,  is  the  head  of  our 
church  in  Africa,  going  there  to  look  after  the  Greeks.  You  should 
come  too." 

Several  times  during  the  afternoon,  he  returned  to  ply  me  with 
questions.  As  we  halted  before  the  cliff-hewn  temple  of  Abu  Simbel, 
I  descended  to  the  lower  deck  to  pose  Maghmood  for  a  picture.  He 
had  just  called  up  Mecca,  however,  and  before  he  deigned  to  notice  my 
existence,  a  voice  sounded  above  me :  — "  Faranchee,  taala  hena."  I 
looked  up  to  see  the  servant  of  the  Armenian  beckoning  to  me  from  the 
upper  deck. 

"  All  the  cabin  passengers  have  been  saying,"  maundered  the  master, 
when  I  reached  the  roof  of  the  barge,  "  that  you  must  get  to  Khartum. 
We  were  about  to  take  up  a  collection  to  buy  you  a  ticket  when  the 
venerable  patriarch  showed  us  a  better  plan.  He  is  in  need  of  a 
servant  who  can  write  English  and  French.  Of  course,  he  is  very  rich, 
like  all  the  head  patriarchs,  and  he  will,  perhaps,  pay  you  much.  If 
he  does  not  need  you  when  he  gets  to  Khartum,  there  is  plenty  of 
work  there.     Come  with  me  to  the  cabin." 

The  "  venerable  patriarch  "  spoke  only  his  native  tongue.  One  of 
his  attendant  priests,  however,  was  well  versed  in  Italian,  and  through 
him  his  chief  dictated  a  letter  to  the  English  mudir  of  Wady  Haifa, 
and  a  second  to  the  French  consul  at  Assiut.  Neither  epistle  con- 
tained matter  of  international  importance.  I  half  suspected  that  my 
employment  was  little  more  than  charity  in  disguise ;  yet  the  Greek  as- 
sured me  that  my  services  were  indispensable.  Who  knows  ?  But  for 
the  force  of  circumstances,  I  might  still  be  gracing  the  suite  of  the 
patriarch  of  Africa. 

We  tied  up  at  Wady  Haifa  after  nightfall.  The  first  man  to  cross 
the  gang  plank  was  an  English  officer  bearing  an  order  forbidding 
any  one  to  land.  A  telegram  from  Assuan  announced  the  outbreak 
of  the  plague,  and  the  steamer  was  to  be  held  in  quarantine. 

A  loud-voiced  protest  rose  from  the  Greeks.  The  train  to  Khar- 
tum was  to  depart  soon,  and  the  service  is  not  hourly  in  the  Soudan. 
A  swift  correspondence  took  place  between  the  steamer  and  the  mu- 


# 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  233 

diria.  The  priests  were  permitted  to  disembark.  The  laymen  revolted 
against  such  discrimination  and  were  soon  released.  Within  a  half- 
hour,  the  second-class  passengers  followed  after  them;  and,  with  no 
man  of  influence  left  on  board,  the  steamer  slipped  her  moorings  and 
tied  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river  at  the  foot  of  the  second  cataract. 

We  were  landed  early  next  morning  and  the  Armenian,  in  company 
with  three  Greek  residents,  met  me  at  the  top  of  the  bank. 

"  The  patriarch  has  made  this  man  your  guardian,"  he  explained, 
pointing  to  one  of  his  companions.  "  He  is  keeper  of  the  Hotel  Tew- 
fekieh.  He  has  your  third-class  ticket  to  Khartum,  and  you  will  live 
with  him  until  you  leave." 

It  was  then  Thursday  morning.  The  next  train  was  scheduled  to 
leave  on  Saturday  night.  In  two  days  I  had  more  than  exhausted 
the  sights  of  Wady  Haifa,  and  time  hung  heavily  on  my  hands.  Until 
my  meeting  with  the  Greeks,  I  had  never  dreamed  of  proceeding  be- 
yond the  second  cataract.  The  sun-baked  city  of  Omdurman  teemed 
with  interest,  perhaps;  but  a  sweltering  two-day  journey  across  the 
desert  was  no  pleasant  anticipation.  Moreover,  half  my  allotted  time 
had  already  passed,  and  my  trip  around  the  globe  was  by  no  means 
half  completed.  Unfortunately,  my  worldly  wealth,  if  it  was  my  own, 
was  tied  up  in  a  bit  of  cardboard  in  the  possession  of  my  host.  It 
was  a  small  fortune,  too,  more  than  ten  dollars.  Had  I  been  the  pos- 
sessor of  half  that  amount,  I  should  have  turned  back  to  Port  Said 
forthwith.  The  good  patriarch,  certainly,  would  shed  no  tears  of  re- 
gret if  I  failed  to  appear  before  him  on  Tuesday  morning.  My 
"  guardian,"  too,  always  spoke  of  the  ticket  as  my  property,  and  would, 
no  doubt,  relinquish  it  if  I  could  offer  a  reasonable  excuse  for  turning 
back.  But  I  could  not,  and  who  should  say  that  the  railway  company 
would  refund  the  money  if  I  could. 

I  had,  therefore,  resolved  to  carry  out  the  plan  as  first  proposed, 
when,  one  afternoon,  a  native  soldier  broke  in  on  my  musing  and  sum- 
moned me  to  the  office  of  the  commissioner  of  customs. 

"  I  hear  you  're  going  to  Khartum,"  said  that  official.  "  You  know 
you  must  have  a  pass  from  the  mudir.  Thought  I  'd  tell  you  so  you 
would  n't  get  held  up  at  the  last  moment.  The  mudiria  is  closed  now, 
but  as  soon  as  it  opens,  you  can  get  a  pass  all  right." 

"  Hope  not,"  I  muttered,  as  I  turned  away. 

The  next  morning  a  servant  in  a  turban  of  daring  color-scheme 
ushered  me  into  the  office  of  Governor  Parsons,  Pasha,  raised  his 
palms  to  his  forehead,  and  withdrew.     The  mudir  was  a  slight,  yet 


234       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

sturdy  Englishman  of  that  frank,  energetic  type  which  the  British 
government  seems  singularly  fortunate  in  choosing  as  rulers  of  her 
dependencies  abroad.  My  application  for  a  pass  awakened  within 
him  no  suspicion  of  my  real  desire.  He  jotted  down  my  answers  on 
the  official  blank  before  him  as  if  this  granting  of  permission  to  ragged 
adventurers  to  enter  a  territory  so  lately  pacified  were  but  a  part  of  his 
daily  routine. 

"  Name  ?  Birthplace  ?  Nationality  ?  Age  ?  Profession  ?  "  He 
read  the  questions  in  a  dispassionate  voice  that  quickly  dispelled  my 
hope  of  having  the  official  ban  raised  against  me.  "  Purpose  in  going 
to  Khartum  ?     Probable  length  of  stay  ?  " 

Oh,  well,  it  did  not  matter.  There  would  be  a  satisfaction  in  having 
penetrated  so  far  into  Africa,  and  I  could  trust  to  fortune  to  bring 
me  down  again. 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  refuse  you  a  passport,"  said  the  mudir,  in  his 
deliberate,  clear-cut  enunciation.  "  By  the  way,  one  other  question 
which  the  law  requires  me  to  ask.  Of  course  you  have  sufficient 
means  to  support  yourself  in  Khartum,  or  to  pay  your  way  down 
again  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  got  three  piastres,"  I  answered,  striving  to  conceal  the  joy 
within  me. 

"What!    No  more?" 

He  turned  the  paper  meditatively  in  his  fingers. 

"  As  a  rule,  we  do  not  grant  passports  to  those  who  may  by  any 
chance  find  themselves  unprovided  for.  It  is  a  precaution  necessary 
for  the  protection  of  the  individual,  for  Khartum  is  a  far-call  from 
civilization.  But  then,  I  am  not  going  to  keep  you  back  if  you  wish 
to  go.  I  have  an  infinite  faith,  justified  by  years  of  observation,  in 
the  ability  of  a  sailor,  especially  a  young  chap,  to  take  care  of  himself." 
He  pressed  his  official  seal  on  a  red  pad  and  examined  it  intently. 
Fate,  evidently,  was  bent  on  sending  me  to  Khartum.  I  resolved  to 
take  a  more  active  hand  in  the  game. 

"  Well,  a  couple  of  chaps  I  was  talkin'  with  in  Wady  give  the  place 
a  tough  name,  too,  sir,"  I  began.  "  You  see,  I  did  n't  know  that  when 
I  was  down  below,  and  since  then  I  Ve  been  thinkin',  sir,  that  it  would 
be  a  bad  port  to  get  on  the  beach  in." 

**  And  these  Greeks,  are  you  certain  they  will  employ  you  ?  Did 
they  give  their  address  ?  " 

"  They  did  n't  give  no  address,  sir,  only  said  they  was  goin'  to  Khar- 
tum.    I  was  thinkin'  it  would  be  better  to  get  down  to  Port  Said  and 


Arab  passengers  on  the  Nile  steamer.     Except  for  their  prayers, 
they  scarcely  move  once  a  day 


The  Greek  patriarch  whose  secretary  I  became — temporarily 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NILE  235 

ship  out,  instead  of  goin'  up.  But  the  ticket 's  already  bought,  sir, 
an' — " 

"  Oh,"  smiled  the  mudir,  "  that  will  offer  no  difficulty.  It  is  a 
government  railway  and  I  can  give  you  a  note  to  the  A.  T.  M.,  request- 
ing him  to  refund  you  the  price  of  the  ticket.  On  the  whole,  after  what 
you  have  said,  I  think  I  had  better  refuse  you  a  pass." 

He  tore  up  the  blank  slowly  and,  pulling  out  an  official  pad,  wrote 
an  order  to  the  railway  official.  I  tucked  it  in  my  pocket  and  returned 
to  the  hotel. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  cried  the  Armenian,  as  I  sat  down  with  sor- 
rowful face  in  a  corner  of  the  pool  room. 

"  The  mudir  has  refused  me  a  pass  to  Khartum,"  I  sighed. 

"  Refused  you  a  pass?  "  echoed  the  Armenian,  turning  to  the  Greeks 
that  had  gathered  around  us. 

Cries  of  sympathy  sounded  on  all  sides. 

"  Never  mind,"  purred  the  interpreter,  patting  me  on  the  shoulder, 
"  Khartum  is  n't  much  and  the  patriarch  will  get  along  somehow  with- 
out you." 

"  Yes,  but  there  's  no  work  here  to  earn  my^  fare  down  the  river." 

The  remark  precipitated  a  long  debate.  At  last,  the  interpreter 
turned  to  me  with  a  smiling  face. 

"  We  have  it !  "  he  cried.  "  As  the  mudir  has  refused  you  permis- 
sion, perhaps  he  will  refund  you  the  price  of  the  ticket  if  you  go  and 
ask  him  ?     That  will  be  enough  — " 

"  But  the  ticket  is  n't  mine,"  I  protested. 

"Not  yours?"  cried  the  Armenian,  "what  nonsense!  Of  course 
it 's  yours.  Whose  else  is  it  ?  The  patriarch  did  n't  pay  you  anything 
else  for  your  work !     Certainly,  it 's  your  ticket." 

He  took  it  from  the  sad-eyed  hotel  keeper  and  thrust  it  into  my 
hand.  "  Now  run  over  to  the  mudiria  and  ask  the  governor  if  he  can't 
fix  it  so  you  can  get  the  money  back." 

I  ran  —  past  the  mudir's  office  and  into  that  of  the  traffic  manager. 
He  was  a  young  Englishman  of  the  type  of  those  who,  according  to  Pia, 
*  have  nothing  much  to  do  with  their  money." 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  as  he  handed  me  the  price  of  the  ticket, 
"  that  two  quid  will  carry  you  down  to  Port  Said  ? " 

"  Sure,"  I  replied. 

"  I  'm  afraid  it  won't,"  he  went  on ;  "  better  have  another  quid." 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  handful  of  gold. 

"  No,  I  'm  fixed  all  right,"  I  protested. 


236       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Go  ahead,  man ;  take  it,"  he  insisted,  holding  out  a  sovereign. 
"  Many  a  one  I  *ve  had  shoved  on  me  when  I  was  down  and  out." 

"  No,  I  'm  all  right,"  I  repeated. 

"  Well,  here,"  said  the  manager ;  "  I  'm  going  to  make  you  out  a 
check  on  my  bank  in  Cairo  for  a  couple  of  quid.  I  think  you  '11  need 
it.  If  you  don't,  chuck  it  in  the  canal  and  no  harm  done.  We 
chaps  never  want  to  see  a  man  on  the  rocks,  you  know." 

He  filled  out  the  check  as  he  talked,  and,  in  spite  of  my  protest, 
tucked  it  into  one  of  my  pockets.  I  acknowledged  my  thanks;  but 
months  afterward  I  scattered  the  pieces  of  that  bit  of  paper  on  the  high- 
way of  another  clime. 

Late  that  night  I  departed  from  Wady  Haifa,  reaching  Assuan  on 
Monday  morning.  On  the  following  day  I  boarded  the  steamer  Cleo- 
patra, of  the  Cook  Line,  as  a  deck  passenger,  and  drifted  lazily  down 
the  Nile  for  five  days,  landing  here  and  there  with  the  tourists  of  the 
upper  deck  to  visit  a  temple  or  a  mud  village.  At  the  Asile  Rudolph, 
Cap  Stevenson  welcomed  me  with  open  arms,  but  "  the  union  '*  was 
wrapped  in  mourning.  Pia,  the  erudite,  had  departed,  no  man  knew 
when  nor  whither.  The  end  of  the  Cairo  season  was  at  hand.  All 
its  social  favorites  were  turning  their  faces  towards  other  lands.  I 
called  on  the  superintendent  of  railways  to  remind  him  of  his  promise, 
and,  armed  with  a  pass  to  Port  Said,  bade  the  capital  farewell. 


CHAPTER  XI 

STEALING   A    MARCH    ON    THE   FAR   EAST 

AS  the  American  "  hobo  *'  studies  the  folders  of  the  railway  lines, 
so  the  vagrant  beyond  seas  scans  the  posters  of  the  steamship 
companies.  Few  were  the  ships  plying  to  the  Far  East  whose 
movements  I  had  not  followed  during  that  Cairene  month  of  February. 
On  the  journey  from  Ismailia  to  the  coast  we  passed  four  leviathans, 
gliding  southward  through  the  canal  so  close  that  we  could  read  from 
the  windows  of  the  train  the  books  in  the  hands  of  the  passengers 
under  the  awnings.  The  names  on  every  bow  I  knew  well.  Had  I 
not,  indeed,  watched  the  departure  of  two  of  these  same  ships  from 
the  breakwater  of  Marseilles  ?  Yet  what  a  gulf  intervened  between  me, 
crawling  along  the  edge  of  the  desert,  and  those  fortunate  mortals, 
already  eastward  bound !  Gladly  would  I  have  exchanged  places  with 
the  most  begrimed  stoker  on  board. 

Had  I  been  permitted  to  choose  my  next  port,  it  should  have  been 
Bombay.  He  who  is  stranded  at  the  mouth  of  the  Suez  Canal,  how- 
ever, talks  not  of  choice.  He  clutches  desperately  at  any  chance  of  es- 
cape, and  is  content  to  be  gone,  be  it  east  or  west,  on  any  craft  that 
floats.  Not  that  ships  are  lacking.  They  pass  the  canal  in  hundreds 
every  week.  But  their  crews  are  yellow  men,  or  brown ;  and  their 
anchorage  well  out  in  the  stream,  where  plain  Jack  Tar  may  not  come 
to  plead  his  cause. 

All  this  I  recalled,  and  more,  as  I  crawled  through  the  African 
desert  behind  a  wheezing  locomotive.  But  one  solemn  oath  I  swore, 
ere  the  first  hovel  bobbed  up  across  the  sand  —  that,  be  it  on  coal  barge 
or  raft,  I  should  escape  from  this  canal-side  halting-place  before  her 
streets  and  alleys  became  such  eyesores  as  had  once  those  of  Marseilles. 
It  was  high  noon  when  we  drew  into  Port  Said,  and  I  hurried  at  once 
to  the  compound  behind  the  Catholic  monastery.  I  was  just  in  time. 
Even  as  I  laid  my  knapsack  on  the  ground  and  lined  up  with  the  rest, 
the  Arab  servant  issued  from  the  kitchen  with  those  same  battered 
tins  in  which  he  had  served  us  months  before.  Barely  had  he  disap- 
peared again  when  three  of  the  company  swooped  down  upon  me. 

237 


238       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

One  I  had  known  at  the  Asile  Rudolph.  The  second  —  cheering  pros- 
pect !  —  was  that  identical  sun-bleached  Boer  who  had  squatted  against 
the  wall  of  the  "  Home  "  on  the  early  December  morning  of  my  first 
Egyptian  day ;  in  those  identical  weather-beaten  garments  which  he  still 
inhabited.  The  third  I  did  not  recognize.  He  was  a  portly  German 
whose  outward  appearance  stamped  him  as  a  successful  weaver  of 
Marchen,  and  he  spread  his  squat  legs  and  gazed  at  me  for  some  time 
with  what  appeared  to  be  an  admiring  grin  before  he  spoke. 

"  Sie  sprechen  Deutch,  nicht  wahr  ?  "  he  began.  "  You,  perhaps, 
haven't  seen  me,  but  I  saw  you  in  Jerusalem.  You  were  making 
pictures  with  a  photograph  machine."  A  roar  of  laughter  set  his  fat 
sides  to  shaking.  "  Donner  und  Blitzen  1  I  have  been  on  the  road  a 
good  twenty  years;  I  know  about  every  game  die  Kunde  play.  But 
that  certainly  is  the  best  I  ever  fell  upon.  Ach,  what  a  story !  I  Ve 
been  telling  them  of  the  comrade  with  the  photograph  machine  ever 
since,  die  Kunde,  and  it 's  a  tale  they  never  try  to  beat.  Herr  Allah, 
dass  ist,  aber,  gut !  "  and  he  bellowed  with  mirth  until  the  Arab  servant, 
to  whom  hilarity  in  one  accepting  alms  was  the  height  of  impudence, 
threatened  to  summon  the  black  policeman  outside  the  gate. 

The  dinner  over,  I  left  my  bundle  with  the  Maltese  youth  and  hur- 
ried away  to  the  shipping  quarter.  As  I  anticipated,  the  demand  for 
sailors  was  nil.  The  situation  was  most  graphically  described,  per- 
haps, by  the  American  consul. 

"  A  man  on  the  beach  in  this  garbage  heap,"  he  testified,  "  is  down 
and  out.  He  had  better  be  sitting  with  the  penguins  on  the  coast  of 
Patagonia.  We  have  n't  signed  on  a  sailor  since  I  was  dumped  here. 
If  you  ever  make  a  get-away,  it  will  be  by  stowing  away.  I  can't  ad- 
vise you  to  do  it,  of  course ;  but  if  I  was  in  your  shoes,  I  'd  stick  away 
on  the  first  packet  homeward  bound,  and  do  it  quick,  before  summer 
comes  along  and  sends  you  to  the  hospital.  The  skippers  are  tickled  to 
death  to  get  a  white  sailor,  anyway,  for  these  niggers  are  not  worth  the 
rice  the  company  feeds  'em.  You  're  welcome  to  tumble  up  these 
office  stairs  every  morning,  if  you  like,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  promise 
to  look  out  for  anything  for  you.  I  'd  only  lose  my  lamps  a'  doing 
it." 

I  returned  to  the  Home  at  nightfall,  and  shared  the  kitchen  — 
but  not  the  cupboard  —  with  the  Boer.  Early  the  next  morning,  I 
reached  the  water-front  in  time  to  see  a  great  steamer  nosing  her  way 
through  the  small  craft  that  swarmed  about  the  mouth  of  the  canal. 
Her  lines  looked  strangely  familiar.     Had  I  not  known  that  the  War- 


S.S.  Worcestershire  of  the  Bibby  Line,  on  which  I  stowed 
away  after  taking  this  picture 


Oriental  travelers  at  Port  Said 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  239 

wickshire  was  due  in  Liverpool  on  this  first  day  of  March,  I  should 
have  expected  to  see  my  former  messmates  peering  over  the  rail  of 
the  new  arrival.  I  made  out  the  name  on  her  bow  as  she  dropped 
anchor  opposite  the  main  street,  and  turned  for  information  to  a 
nearby  poster. 

"  Bibby  Line,"  ran  the  notice,  "  5".  S.  Worcestershire.  Recently 
launched.  Largest,  best  equipped,  fastest  steamer  plying  between 
England  and  British  Burma.  First-class  passengers  only.  Fare  to 
Colombo,  thirty-six  guineas." 

A  sister  ship  of  the  vessel  that  had  rescued  me  from  Marseilles ! 
The  very  sight  of  her  was  reminiscent  of  the  prime  roasts  we  had 
been  wont  to  serve  the  fishes  of  the  Mediterranean.  I  hastened  to 
the  landing  stage  and  accosted  the  officers  as  they  disembarked,  with 
the  tourists,  for  a  run  ashore. 

"  Full  up.  Jack,"  answered  one  of  them. 

I  recalled  the  advice  of  the  American  consul.  A  better  craft  to 
*'  stick  away  on  "  would  never  drop  anchor  in  the  canal.  Bah !  How 
ludicrous  the  notion  sounded!  The  Khedive  himself  could  not  even 
have  boarded  such  a  vessel,  in  sun-bleached  corduroys  and  Nazarene 
slippers.  By  night,  with  no  moon?  The  blackest  night  could  not 
hide  such  rags!  Besides,  the  steamer  was  sure  to  coal  and  be  gone 
within  a  couple  of  hours.  I  trained  my  kodak  upon  her,  and  turned 
sorrowfully  away. 

A  native  fair  was  in  full  swing  at  the  far  end  of  the  town.  Amid 
the  snake-charmers  and  shameless  dancers,  the  incident  of  the  morning 
was  soon  forgotten.  Darkness  was  falling  when  I  strolled  back  to- 
wards the  harbor.  At  the  shop  where  spitted  mutton  sold  cheaply,  I 
halted  for  supper ;  but  the  keeper  had  put  up  his  shutters.  No  doubt 
lie  was  sowing  his  year's  earnings  among  the  gamblers  at  the  fair. 
Hungrily  I  wandered  on,  turned  into  the  main  street  of  the  European 
section,  and  stopped  stock  still,  dumb  with  astonishment.  The  vista 
beyond  the  canal  was  still  cut  off  by  the  vast  bulk  of  the  Worcester- 
shire! 

What  an  opportunity — if  once  I  could  get  on  board!  Perhaps  I 
might !  In  the  terms  of  the  paddock,  it  was  "  a  hundred-to-one  shot ;  " 
but  who  could  say  when  better  odds  would  be  chalked  up?  A  quar- 
termaster was  ahnost  sure  to  halt  me  at  the  gang  plank.  Some  pal- 
pable excuse  I  must  offer  him  for  being  rowed  out  to  the  steamer. 
If  only  I  had  something  to  be  delivered  on  board,  a  basket  of  fruit,  or 
—  shades  of  Cairo!  —  of  course  —  a  letter  of  introduction! 


240      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Breathlessly,  I  dashed  into  the  Home,  snatched  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  an  envelope  from  the  Maltese  youth,  and  scribbled  an  appeal  for 
employment,  in  any  capacity.  Having  sealed  the  envelope  against  the 
prying  eyes  of  subordinates,  I  addressed  it  in  a  flourishing  hand  to 
the  chief  steward. 

But  my  knapsack  ?  Certainly  I  could  not  carry  that  on  board !  I 
dumped  the  contents  on  the  floor  and  thrust  the  kodak  and  my  papers 
into  an  inside  pocket.  There  was  nothing  else  —  but  hold!  That 
bundle  at  the  bottom?  The  minister's  frock  coat,  of  broadcloth,  with 
wide,  silk-faced  lapels!  What  kind  fairy  had  gainsaid  my  reiterated 
threats  to  throw  away  that  useless  garment  ?  Eagerly  I  slipped  into  it. 
The  very  thing!  With  my  unshaven  face  and  bleached  legs  in  the 
shadow,  I  could  rival  Beau  Brummel  himself.  Many  an  English 
lord,  touring  in  the  East,  wears  a  cap  after  nightfall. 

"  Scrape  that  stuff  together  for  me,"  I  bawled,  springing  past  the 
Maltese  youth.  "  If  I  don't  turn  up  within  a  week,  give  'em  to  the 
beachcombers." 

The  Worcestershire  was  still  at  anchor.  Two  Arab  boatmen 
squatted  under  a  torch  on  one  corner  of  the  landing  stage.  The  legal 
fare  was  six  pence.  I  had  three.  It  cost  me  some  precious  moments  to 
beat  down  one  of  the  watermen.  He  stepped  into  his  felucca  at  last 
and  pushed  off  cautiously  towards  the  rows  of  lighted  portholes. 

As  we  neared  the  steamer,  I  made  out  a  figure  in  uniform  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  ship's  ladder.  The  game  was  lost!  I  might  have 
talked  my  way  by  a  quartermaster,  but  I  certainly  could  not  pass  this 
bridge  officer. 

The  boatman  swung  his  craft  against  the  ladder  with  a  sweep  of  the 
oar.     I  held  up  the  note : 

"Will  you  kindly  deliver  this  to  the  chief  steward?  The  writer 
wants  an  answer  before  the  ship  leaves." 

"  I  really  have  n't  time,"  apologized  the  mate.  "  I  've  an  errand 
ashore  and  we  leave  in  fifteen  minutes.  You  can  run  up  with  it  your- 
self, though.     Here,  boatman,  row  me  over  to  the  custom  wharf." 

I  sprang  up  the  ladder.  Except  for  several  sahib-respecting  Las- 
cars, who  jumped  aside  as  I  appeared,  the  promenade  deck  was  de- 
serted. From  somewhere  below  came  the  sound  of  waltz  music  and 
the  laughter  of  merry  people.  I  strolled  leisurely  around  to  the  port 
side  and  walked  aft  in  the  shadow  of  the  upper  cabins.  For  some 
moments  I  stood  alone  in  the  darkness^  gazing  at  the  reflection  of  the 
lower  portholes  in  the  canal.     Then,  a  step  sounded  at  the  door  of  j 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  241 

the  saloon  behind  me,  a  heavy  British  step  that  advanced  several  paces 
and  halted.  One  could  almost  feel  the  authority  in  that  step ;  one  could 
certainly  hear  it  in  the  gruff  "  ahem  "  with  w^hich  the  nevi^comer  cleared 
his  throat.  An  officer,  no  doubt,  about  to  order  me  ashore !  I  v^aited 
in  literal  fear  and  trembling. 

A  minute  passed,  then  another.  I  turned  my  head,  inch  by  inch,  and 
peered  over  my  shoulder.  In  the  shaft  of  light  stood  a  man  in  fault- 
less evening  attire,  gazing  at  me  through  the  intervening  darkness. 
His  dress  suggested  a  passenger;  but  the  very  set  of  his  feet  on  the 
deck  proved  him  no  landsman.  The  skipper  himself,  surely!  What 
under  officer  would  dare  appear  out  of  uniform  during  a  voyage? 

I  turned  my  head  away  again,  determined  to  bear  the  impending 
blow  with  fortitude.  The  dreaded  being  cleared  his  throat  once  more, 
stepped  nearer,  and  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking.  Then  a 
hand  touched  me  lightly  on  the  sleeve. 

"  Beg  pahdon,  sir,"  murmured  an  apologetic  voice ;  "  beg  pahdon,  sir, 
but  'ave  you  'ad  dinner  yet  ?  The  other  gentlemen  's  h'all  been  served, 
sir." 

I  swallowed  my  throat  and  turned  around,  laying  a  hand  over  the 
place  where  my  necktie  should  have  been. 

"  I  am  not  a  passenger,  my  man,"  I  replied  haughtily ;  "  I  have  a 
communication  for  the  chief  steward." 

The  flunky  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  I  cawn't  send  it,  you  know,"  I  protested.  "  I  must  deliver  it  in 
person,  for  it  requires  an  answer  before  the  ship  leaves." 

"  Lord,  you  can't  see  'im,"  gasped  the  Briton ;  "  we  're  givin'  a  ball 
and  'e  's  in  the  drawrin'-room." 

The  sound  of  our  voices  had  attracted  the  quartermaster  on  duty. 
Behind  him  appeared  a  young  steward. 

"  You  'd  best  get  ashore  quick,"  said  the  sailor ;  "  we  're  only  waitin' 
the  fourth  mite.     Best  call  a  boatman  or  you  '11  get  carried  off." 

"  Really !  "  I  cried,  looking  anxiously  about  me,  "  But  I  must  have 
an  answer,  you  know." 

"  I  could  n't  disturb  'im,"  wheezed  the  older  steward. 

"  Well,  show  me  where  he  is,"  I  protested. 

"  Now  we  're  off  in  a  couple  o'  winks,"  warned  the  quartermaster. 

"  'Ere,  mite,"  said  the  youth ;  '*  I  '11  take  you  down." 

I  followed  him  to  the  deck  below  and  along  a  lighted  passageway. 
My  disguise  would  never  stand  the  glare  of  a  drawing-room.  I  thrust 
the  note  into  the  hands  of  my  guide. 


242       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

**  Be  sure  to  bring  me  the  answer,"  I  cautioned. 

He  pushed  his  way  through  a  throng  of  his  messmates  and  disap- 
peared into  the  drawing-room.  A  moment  later  he  returned  with  the 
answer  I  had  expected. 

*' So  you're  on  the  beach?"  he  grinned,  "you  sure  did  get  it  on 
Clarence,  all  right.  'Ard  luck.  The  chief  says  the  force  is  full  an'  the 
company  rules  don't  allow  'im  to  tyke  on  a  man  to  work  'is  passage. 
Sye,  you  've  slipped  your  cayble,  anyway,  ayn't  you  ?  We  're  not  'ome- 
ward  bound ;  we  're  going  out.     You  'd  best  rustle  it  an'  get  ashore." 

He  turned  into  the  galley.  Never  had  I  ventured  to  hope  that  he 
would  let  me  out  of  his  sight  before  he  had  turned  me  over  to  the  quar- 
termaster. His  carelessness  was  due,  no  doubt,  to  his  certainty  that 
I  had  **  slipped  my  cayble."  I  dashed  out  of  the  passageway  as  if 
fearful  of  being  carried  off;  but,  once  shrouded  in  the  kindly  night, 
paused  to  peer  about  me. 

There  were  a  score  of  places  that  offered  a  temporary  hiding;  but 
a  stow-away  through  the  Suez  Canal  must  be  more  than  temporarily 
hidden.  I  ran  over  in  my  mind  the  favorite  lurking  places  on  ocean 
liners.  Inside  a  mattress  in  the  steerage?  First-class  only.  In  the 
hold?  Hatches  all  battened  down.  On  the  fidleys  or  in  the  coal 
bunkers?  Very  well  in  the  depth  of  winter,  but  sure  death  in  this 
climate.  In  the  forecastle?  Indian  crew.  In  the  rubbish  under  the 
forecastle  head?  Sure  to  be  found  in  a  few  hours  by  tattle-tale  na- 
tives. In  the  chain  locker?  The  anchor  might  be  dropped  anywhere 
in  the  canal,  and  I  should  be  dragged  piecemeal  through  the  hawse- 
hole. 

Still  pondering,  I  climbed  to-'the  spot  where  I  had  first  been  accosted. 
From  the  starboard  side,  forward,  came  the  voice  of  the  fourth  mate, 
clambering  on  board.  In  a  few  moments  officers  and  men  would  be 
flocking  up  from  below.  Noiselessly,  I  sprang  up  the  ladder  to  the 
hurricane  deck.  That  and  the  bridge  were  still  deserted.  I  crept  to 
the  nearest  lifeboat  and  dragged  myself  along  the  edge  that  hung  well 
out  over  the  canal.  The  canvas  cover  was  held  in  place  by  a  cord 
that  ran  alternately  through  eyeholes  in  the  cloth  and  around  iron 
pins  under  the  gunwale.  I  tugged  at  the  cord  for  a  minute  that 
seemed  a  century  before  I  succeeded  in  pulling  it  over  the  first  pin. 
After  that,  all  went  easily.  With  the  cover  loosened  for  a  space  of 
four  feet,  I  thrust  my  head  through  the  opening.  Before  my  shoulders 
were  inside  my  feet  no  longer  reached  the  ship's  rail.  I  squirmed  in, 
inch  by  inch,  after  the  fashion  of  a  swimmer,  fearful  of  making  the 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  243 

slightest  noise.  Only  my  feet  remained  outside  when  my  hand  struck 
an  oar  inside  the  boat.  Its  rattle  could  have  been  heard  in  Cairo. 
Drenched  with  perspiration,  I  listened  for  my  discoverer.  The  festive 
music,  evidently,  engrossed  the  attention  of  the  entire  ship's  company. 
I  drew  in  my  feet  by  doubling  up  like  a  pocketknife,  and,  thrusting  a 
hand  through  the  opening,  fastened  the  cord  over  all  but  one  pin. 

The  space  inside  was  more  than  limited.  Seats,  casks,  oars,  and 
boat-hooks  left  me  barely  room  to  stretch  out  on  my  back  without  touch- 
ing the  canvas  above  me.  Two  officers  brushed  by,  and  mounting 
to  the  bridge,  called  out  their  orders  within  six  feet  of  me.  The 
rattle  of  the  anchor  chain  announced  that  the  long  passage  of  the  canal 
had  begun.  When  I  could  breathe  without  opening  my  mouth  at  every 
gasp,  I  was  reminded  that  the  shop  where  spitted  mutton  sold  cheaply 
had  been  closed.  Within  an  hour,  that  misfortune  was  forgotten. 
The  sharp  edge  of  the  water  cask  under  my  back,  the  oars  that  sup- 
ported my  hips,  the  seat  that  my  shoulders  barely  reached,  began  to  cut 
into  my  flesh,  sending  sharp  pains  through  every  limb.  The  slightest 
movement  might  send  some  unseen  article  clattering.  Worst  of  all, 
there  was  just  space  sufficient  for  my  head  while  I  kept  my  neck 
strained  to  the  utmost.  The  tip  of  my  nose  touched  the  canvas.  To 
have  stirred  that  ever  so  slightly  would  have  sent  me  packing  at  the 
first  canal  station. 

The  position  grew  more  painful  hour  by  hour,  but  with  the  beginning 
of  the  "  grave-yard"  watch  my  body  grew  numb  and  I  sank  into  a 
half -comatose  state  that  was  not  sleeping. 

Daylight  brought  no  relief,  though  the  sunshine,  filtering  through 
the  canvas,  disclosed  the  objects  about  me.  There  came  the  jabbering 
of  strange  tongues  as  the  crew  quarreled  over  their  work  about  the 
deck.  Now  and  then,  a  shout  from  a  canal  station  marked  our  prog- 
ress. Passengers  mounting  to  the  upper  deck  brushed  against  the 
lifeboat  in  their  promenading.  From  time  to  time  confidential  chats 
sounded  in  my  ears. 

All  save  the  officers  soon  retreated  to  the  shade  below.  In  the  arid 
desert  through  which  we  were  steaming  that  day  must  certainly  have 
been  calorific.  But  there,  at  least,  a  breeze  was  stirring.  By  four 
bells,  the  Egyptian  sun,  pouring  down  upon  the  canvas,  had  turned  my 
hiding  place  into  an  oven.  By  noon,  it  resembled  nothing  so  cool  and 
refreshing.  A  raging  thirst  had  long  since  put  hunger  to  flight.  In 
the  early  afternoon,  as  I  lay  motionless  on  my  grill,  there  sounded  the 
splash  of  water,  close  at  hand.     Two  natives  had  been  sent  to  wash 


244       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  lifeboat.  For  an  hour  they  dashed  bucketful  after  bucketful 
against  it,  splashing,  now  and  then,  even  the  canvas  over  my  head. 

The  gong  had  just  sounded  for  afternoon  tea  v^hen  the  ship  began 
to  rock  slightly.  A  faint  sound  of  v^^aves  breaking  on  the  bow  suc- 
ceeded. A  light  breeze  moved  the  canvas  ever  so  little  and  the  throb 
of  the  engines  increased.  Had  we  passed  out  of  the  canal?  My  first 
impulse  was  to  tear  at  the  canvas  and  bellow  for  water.  But  had  we 
left  Suez  behind?  This,  perhaps,  was  only  the  Bitter  Lakes?  Or,  if 
we  had  reached  the  Red  Sea,  the  pilot  might  still  be  on  board !  To  be 
set  ashore  now  was  a  fate  far  more  to  be  dreaded  than  during  the  first 
hours  of  my  torture,  for  it  meant  an  endless  tramp  through  the  burning 
desert,  back  to  Port  Said. 

I  held  my  peace  and  listened  intently  for  any  word  that  might  in- 
dicate our  whereabouts.  None  came,  but  the  setting  sun  brought  relief, 
and  falling  darkness  found  my  thirst  somewhat  abated.  The  motion 
of  the  ship  lacked  the  pitch  of  the  open  sea.  I  resolved  to  take  no 
chances  with  victory  so  close  at  hand. 

With  night  came  the  passengers,  to  lean  against  the  boat  and  pour 
out  confidences.  How  easily  I  might  have  posed  as  a  fortune-teller 
among  them  during  the  rest  of  the  voyage !  A  dozen  schemes,  ranging 
from  an  enthusiastic  project  for  the  immediate  evangelization  of  all  the 
Indias  to  the  arrangement  of  a  tiger-hunt  in  the  Assam  hills,  were 
planned  within  my  hearing  during  that  motionless  evening.  But  the 
sound  of  music  below  left  the  deck  deserted,  and  I  settled  down  to  the 
less  humiliating  occupation  of  listening  to  the  faint  tread  of  the  second 
mate,  who  paced  the  bridge  above  me. 

An  hour  passed.  Other  thoughts  drove  from  my  memory  the  se- 
crets that  had  been  forced  upon  me.  Suddenly,  there  sounded  a  light 
step  and  a  frou-frou  of  skirts,  suggestive  of  ball-room  scenes.  Behind 
came  a  heavier  tread,  a  hurried  word,  and  a  ripple  of  laughter. 
Shades  of  the  prophet!  Why  mustjsvery  pair  on  board  choose  that 
particular  spot  to  pour  out  their  secrets?  Because  a  man  and  a  maid 
chanced  to  pause  where  I  could  hear  their  lightest  whisper,  was  I  to 
shout  a  warning  and  tramp  back  to  starve  in  the  alleyways  of  Port  Said  ? 
I  refused  the  sacrifice,  and  for  my  refusal,  heard  many  words  —  and 
other  sounds.  The  moon  was  beautiful  that  night  —  I  know,  though 
I  did  not  see  it.  A  young  English  commissioner  had  left  his  island 
home  two  weeks  before,  resolved  to  dwell  among  the  hills  of  India  in 
a  bungalow  alone  —  that,  too,  I  know,  though  I  saw  him  not.     Yet 


i 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  245 

he  landed  with  other  plans,  plans  drawn  up  and  sealed  on  the  hurricane 
deck  of  the  Worcestershire  in  the  waning  hours  of  the  second  of 
March ;  amid  many  words  —  and  other  sounds. 

The  night  wore  on.  Less  fearful,  now,  of  discovery,  I  moved,  for 
the  first  time  in  thirty  hours,  and,  rolling  slowly  on  my  side,  fell  asleep. 
It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  awoke  to  the  sounding  of  two  bells.  The 
ship  was  rolling  in  no  uncertain  manner.  I  tugged  at  the  cord 
that  bound  down  the  boat  cover  and  peered  out.  For  some  moments 
barely  a  muscle  of  my  body  responded  to  the  command  of  the  will. 
Even  when  I  had  wormed  myself  out  I  came  near  losing  my  grip  on 
the  edge  of  the  boat  before  my  feet  touched  the  rail.  Once  on  deck,  I 
waited  to  be  discovered.  The  frock  coat  lay  in  the  lifeboat.  No 
landlubber  could  have  mistaken  me  for  a  passenger  now. 

Calmly,  I  walked  aft  and  descended  to  the  promenade  deck.  A 
score  of  bare-legged  Lascars  were  "  washing  down."  Near  them,  the 
sarang,  in  all  the  glory  of  embroidered  jacket  and  rubber  boots,  strutted 
back  and  forth,  fumbling  at  the  silver  chain  about  his  neck.  I  strolled 
by  them.  The  low-caste  fellows  sprang  out  of  my  way  like  startled 
cats.  Their  superior  gazed  at  me  with  a  half-friendly,  half-fawning 
smile.  If  they  were  surprised,  they  did  not  show  it.  Probably  they 
were  not.  What  was  it  to  them,  if  a  sahib  chose  to  turn  out  in  a 
ragged  hunting-costume  for  an  early  promenade?  Stranger  things 
than  that  they  had  seen  among  these  enigmatical  beings  with  white 
skins.  Unfortunately  the  Worcestershire  was  a  bit  too  cumbersome  or 
I  might  have  carried  it  off  before  my  presence  on  board  was  suspected. 

Some  time  I  paced  the  deck  with  majestic  tread  without  catching 
sight  of  a  white  face.  At  last  a  diminutive  son  of  Britain  clambered 
unsteadily  up  the  companionway,  clinging  tenaciously  to  a  pot  of  tea. 

"  Here,  boy,"  I  called ;  "  who  's  on  the  bridge,  the  mate?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  stammered  the  boy,  sidling  away ;  "  the  mite,  sir." 

"  Well,  tell  him  there  's  a  stowaway  on  board." 

"  Wat 's  that,  sir  ?  You  see,  sir,  I  'm  a  new  cabin  boy,  on  me  first 
trip  — " 

"  And  you  don't  know  what  a  stowaway  is,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  If  you  '11  run  along  and  tell  the  mate,  you  '11  find  out  soon  enough." 

The  boy  made  his  way  aft,  clutching,  now  and  then,  at  the  rail,  and 
mounted  to  the  upper  deck.  Judging  from  the  grin  on  his  face  as  he 
came  running  back,  he  had  added  a  new  word  to  his  vocabulary. 


246       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

**  The  mite  says  for  you  to  come  up  on  the  bridge,  quick.  'E's 
bloody  mad." 

I  cHmbed  again  to  the  hurricane  deck.  The  mate's  sanguinary 
choler  had  so  overcome  him  that  he  had  deserted  his  post  and  waited 
for  me  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge  ladder.  He  was  burly  and  lantern- 
jawed,  clad  in  the  neglige  of  early  morning  in  the  tropical  seas ;  bare- 
headed, barefooted,  his  hairy  chest  agap,  his  duck  trousers  rolled  up  to 
his  knees,  and  a  thick  tangle  of  dishevelled  hair  waving  in  the  wind. 
With  the  ferocious  mien  of  an  executioner,  he  glared  at  me  in  utter 
silence. 

"  I  'm  a  sailor,  sir,"  I  began ;  "  I  was  on  the  beach  in  Port  Said.  I  'm 
sorry,  sir,  but  I  had  to  get  away  — " 

The  mate  gave  no  other  sign  of  having  heard  than  to  push  his 
massive  jaw  further  out. 

"  There  was  no  chance  to  sign  on  there,  sir.  Not  a  man  shipped  in 
months,  sir,  and  it 's  a  tough  place  to  be  on  the  beach  — " 

"  What  the  holy  hell  has  that  got  to  do  with  me  and  my  ship !  " 
roared  the  officer,  springing  several  yards  into  the  air  and  descending 

to  shake  his  sledge-hammer  fist  under  my  nose.     "  You , 

I  '11  give  you  six  months  for  this  directly  we  get  to  Colombo.  You  '11 
stow  away  on  my  ship,  will  you?  Get  to  hell  down  off  this  deck  be- 
fore I  brain  you  with  this  bucket,  you ,"  but  his  subse- 
quent remarks,  like  his  attire,  were  for  early  morning  use,  and  would 
have  created  a  even  greater  furor  in  that  vicinity,  a  few  hours  later, 
than  his  bare  legs. 

Not  certain  to  what  quarter  of  the  Worcestershire  the  nautical  term 
applied,  I  started  forward.     Another  bellow  brought  me  to  a  halt. 

"  You  — ,"  but  never  mind  the  details.  The  new  order,  expur- 
gated, amounted  to  the  information  that  I  was  to  wait  in  the  waist  until 
the  captain  had  seen  me. 

I  descended,  snatched  a  draught  of  tepid  water  at  the  pump,  and 
leaned  against  the  port  bulwarks.  Too  hungry  to  be  greatly  terrified, 
I  had  really  taken  new  heart  at  the  mate's  threat.  "  Colombo  "  he 
had  said.  Until  then  I  had  feared  the  Worcestershire,  like  most 
East-Indiamen,  would  put  in  at  Aden ;  and  unwelcome  passengers, 
turned  over  to  the  British  governor  there,  were  invariably  packed 
off  on  the  first  steamer  to  Port  Sa'id. 

An  hour,  two  hours,  three  hours,  I  stood  in  the  waist,  returning  the 
stares  of  every  member  of  the  ship's  company,  Hindu  or  English, 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  247 

whose  duties  or  curiosity  brought  him  to  that  quarter.  With  the 
sounding  of  eight  bells  a  steward  returned  from  the  galley  with  a  can 
of  coffee.  Once  started,  an  endless  procession  of  bacon,  steaks,  and 
ragouts  filed  by  under  my  nose.  To  snatch  at  orfe  of  the  pans  would 
have  been  my  undoing.  I  thrust  my  head  over  the  bulwarks,  where 
sea  breezes  blew,  and  stared  at  the  sand  billows  of  the  Arabian  coast. 
Not  until  the  denizens  of  the  "  glory-hole  "  had  returned  to  their  duties 
did  I  venture  to  turn  around  once  more.  "  Peggy,"  the  stewards' 
steward,  peered  furtively  out  upon  me. 

''  Eh !     Mite,"  he  whispered ;  "  'ad  anythink  to  eat  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  lately." 

"  Well,  come  inside.    There  's  a  pan  o'  scow  left  to  dump." 

Very  little  of  it  was  dumped  that  morning. 

I  had  barely  returned  to  my  place  virhen  four  officers  descended  the 
starboard  ladder  to  the  waist.  They  were  led  by  the  mate,  immacu- 
late now,  as  the  rest,  in  a  snow-white  uniform.  His  vocabulary,  too, 
had  improved.  A  "  sir,"  falling  from  his  lips,  singled  out  the  captain. 
My  hopes  rose  at  once.  The  commander  was  the  exact  antithesis  of 
his  first  officer.  Small,  dapper,  almost  dainty  of  figure  and  movement, 
his  iron-gray  hair  gave  setting  to  a  face  in  which  neither  toleration 
nor  authority  had  gained  the  mastery. 

With  never  a  sign  of  having  seen  me,  the  officers  mounted  the  poop 
ladder  and  strolled  slowly  aft,  examining  as  they  went.  "  Peggy  " 
appeared  at  the  door  of  the  "glory-hole"  with  a  dish  cloth  in  his 
hands. 

"  Morning  h'inspection,"  he  explained,  in  a  husky  whisper ;  "  they  '11 
be  back  on  the  port  side  directly  they  've  h'inspected  the  poop.  The 
little  cuss  's  the  old  man.  Cap  Harris,  commodore  in  the  Nyval  Re- 
serve.    'E  's  all  right." 

"  Hope  he  lives  out  the  voyage,'*  I  muttered. 

"  The  fat,  jolly  chap 's  the  chief  steward,"  went  on  "  Peggy." 
*'  Best  man  on  the  ship.     The  long  un  's  the  doctor." 

A  stow^away  takes  no  precedence  over  any  other  apparatus  on  board 
ship  that  needs  regulating.  After  their  reappearance  in  the  waist  the 
officers  halted  several  times  within  a  few  feet  of  me  to  scrutinize  some 
article  of  the  steamer's  equipment.  When  the  scuppers  had  been  or- 
dered cleaned  and  the  pump  had  been  pronounced  in  proper  sanitary 
condition,  the  mate  turned  to  the  captain  and  pointed  an  accusing  finger 
at  me: —  _^ 


248      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  There  he  is,  sir." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  skipper.  "  What  was  your  object,  my  man,  in  stow- 
ing yourself  away  on  this  vessel  ?  " 

I  began  the  story  I  had  attempted  to  tell  the  first  officer.  The 
captain  heard  it  all  without  interruption. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  mused,  when  I  had  finished.  "  Port  Said  is  a  very 
unfortunate  place  to  be  left  without  funds.  But  why  did  you  not  come 
on  board  and  ask  permission  to  work  your  passage  ? " 

What  stowaway  has  not  heard  that  formula,  even  though  the  in- 
quirer has  refused  that  permission  a  dozen  times  during  the  voyage? 

"  I  did,  sir!  "  I  cried,  "  That 's  just  what  I  did!  I  brought  a  letter 
to  the  chief  steward.     That 's  how  I  come  on  board,  sir." 

"  That 's  so !  "  put  in  the  "  fat  jolly  chap  "  eagerly ;  "  he  sent  a  note 
to  me  in  the  drawing-room  the  night  of  the  ball.  But  I  sent  back 
word  that  my  force  was  full." 

"  I  see,"  pondered  the  captain.  "  You  're  the  first  man  that  ever 
stowed  away  on  a  vessel  under  my  command,"  he  went  on,  almost 
sadly ;  "  you  make  yourself  liable  to  severe  punishment,  you  know?  " 

"  I  'd  put  him  in  irons  and  send  him  up,  sir,"  burst  out  the  mate. 

"  N-no,"  returned  the  skipper,  "that  wouldn't  be  just,  Dick.  You 
know  Port  Said.  But  you  know  you  will  have  to  work  on  the  voyage," 
he  added,  turning  to  me. 

"  Why,  certainly,  sir,"  I  cried,  suddenly  assailed  with  the  fear  that 
he  might  see,  through  my  coat,  the  kodak  that  contained  a  likeness  of 
his  ship. 

"  You  told  the  chief  officer  you  were  a  sailor,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  A.  B.,  sir  —  and  steward." 

"  Have  you  anything  you  can  put  him  at,  Chester  ?  " 

"  I  've  more  than  I  can  use  now,"  replied  the  heavy-weight. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  put  in  the  mate,  "  but  the  chief  engineer  says 
he  can  use  an  extra  man  down  below." 

He  was  a  kindly  fellow,  was  the  mate.  Not  only  was  the  stoke  hole 
an  inferno  in  that  latitude,  but  the  Hindu  firemen  would  never  have 
ceased  gloating  over  the  sahib  who  had  been  sentenced  to  the  degrada- 
tion of  working  among  them. 

*'  No !  No !  "  answered  the  commander ;  "  The  man  is  a  sailor  and  a 
steward.  He  is  not  a  stoker.  You  had  better  take  him  on  deck  with 
you,  Dick." 

He  started  up  the  ladder ;  but  the  mate  loathed  to  acknowledge  him- 
self defeated.     He  made  a  sign  to  the  doctor. 


STEALING  A  MARCH  ON  THE  FAR  EAST  249 

"  Stick  out  your  tongue,"  commanded  Sangrado,  suddenly. 

I  complied. 

"  Does  that  look  as  if  he  had  been  without  food  for  forty-eight 
hours  ?  "  demanded  the  mate. 

What  he  hoped  to  prove  by  the  question  I  could  not  fathom.  It 
would  never  do  to  incriminate  "  Peggy,"  and  I  kept  silent.  The  leech 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Huh,"  muttered  the  mate,  "  I  know  what  I  'd  do  with  him  if  I  was 
in  command." 

"  Take  him  on  deck  with  you,  Dick,"  repeated  the  captain,  from 
above. 

"And  his  accommodation?"  put  in  the  chief  steward. 

**  There  are  a  few  berths  unoccupied  in  the  quarters  of  your  men, 
are  there  not  ?  " 

"  Two  or  three,  I  believe." 

"  Give  him  one  of  those  and  increase  the  mess  allowance  by  one. 
Get  something  to  eat  now,  my  man,  and  report  to  the  chief  officer, 
forward,  when  you  have  finished." 

"  I  '11  send  you  down  a  couple  of  cotton  suits,"  whispered  the  chief 
steward,  as  he  labored  up  the  ladder ;  "  you  '11  die  of  the  plague  with 
that  outfit  on." 

I  lingered  in  the  "  glory-hole  "  long  enough  to  have  eaten  breakfast 
and  hurried  forward.  The  mate,  scowling,  began  a  rapid-fire  of  ques- 
tions, in  the  hope  of  tangling  me  up  in  a  contradictory  story.  The 
attempt  failed. 

"  Box  the  compass,"  he  snarled,  suddenly. 

I  did  so.  For  an  hour  he  subjected  me  to  a  severe  nautical  examina- 
tion without  any  startling  satisfaction. 

"  Umph!*'  he  growled  at  last,  "  Take  that  holly-stone  with  the  han- 
dle "  —  it  weighed  a  good  thirty  pounds  — "  and  go  to  polishing  the 
poop.  You  '11  work  every  day  from  six  in  the  morning  until  seven  at 
night,  with  a  half-hour  off  for  your  mess.  From  four  to  six  in  the 
morning  and  from  eight  to  ten  at  night,  you  '11  stand  look-out  in  the 
crow's-nest  and  save  us  two  Lascars.  On  Sunday  you  '11  stand  look- 
out from  four  to  eight,  nine  to  twelve,  two  to  seven,  and  eight  to  ten. 
Look  lively,  now,  and  see  that  the  poop  deck  begins  to  shine  when  I 
come  aft." 

Without  a  break,  I  continued  this  regime  as  long  as  the  voyage 
lasted.  Having  once  imposed  his  sentence  upon  me,  the  mate  rarely 
gave  me  a  word.     Less  from  fear  of  his  wrath  than  of  a  leer  of  satis- 


250       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

faction  on  his  rough-hewn  face,  I  toiled  steadily  at  the  task  he  had 
assigned.  The  holly-stone  took  on  great  weight,  but  the  privilege  of 
viewing  every  tropical  sunrise  and  sunset  from  the  crow's-nest  I  would 
not  have  exchanged  for  a  seat  at  the  captain's  table.  My  messmates 
were  good-hearted,  their  chief  ever  eager  to  do  me  a  kindly  service. 
The  Hindu  crew  took  vast  joy  in  my  fancied  degradation,  and  those 
intervals  were  rare  when  a  group  of  the  brown  rascals  were  not  hover- 
ing over  me,  chattering  like  apes  in  the  forest,  and  grinning  derisively. 
But  the  proudest  man  on  board  was  the  sarang ;  for  it  was  through  him 
that  the  mate  sent  me  his  mandates.  Since  the  days  when  he  rolled 
naked  and  unashamed  on  the  sand  floor  of  his  natal  hut  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hoogly,  the  native  boatswain  had  dreamed  of  no  greater  bliss 
than  to  issue  commands  to  a  sahib. 

Ten  days  the  Worcestershire  steamed  on  through  a  motionless 
sea,  under  a  sun  that  waxed  more  torrid  every  hour.  The  "  glory- 
hole  "  became  uninhabitable.  Men  who  had  waded  through  the  snow  on 
the  docks  of  Liverpool  two  weeks  before  took  to  sleeping  on  the  deck 
of  the  poop,  in  the  thinnest  of  garb.  With  the  smell  of  land  in  our 
nostrils,  the  good-night  chorus  was  sung  more  than  once  on  the 
eleventh  evening,  and  our  sleep  was  brief.  Before  darkness  fled  I  had 
climbed  again  to  my  coign  of  vantage  on  the  foremast.  The  first 
gray  of  dawn  revealed  the  dim  outline  of  a  low  mountain  range, 
tinged  with  color  by  the  unborn  sunrise  behind  it.  Slowly  the  moun- 
tains faded  from  view  as  the  lowlands  rose  up  to  greet  us.  By  eight 
bells  we  were  within  hailing  distance  of  a  score  of  brown-black 
islanders,  unburdened  with  clothing,  who  paddled  boldly  seaward  in 
their  out-rigger  canoes.  The  Worcestershire  found  entrance  to  a  far- 
reaching  breakwater,  and,  escorted  by  a  great  school  of  small  craft, 
rode  to  an  anchorage  in  the  center  of  the  harbor.  A  multitude 
swarmed  on  board,  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable,  and  in  the  result- 
ing overthrow  of  discipline  I  left  my  stone  where  the  mess-call  had 
found  it,  and  hurried  below  to  make  up  my  "  shore  bundle."  By  the 
kindness  of  the  chief  steward,  I  was  amply  supplied  with  cotton  suits. 
The  frock  coat,  still  in  the  lifeboat,  I  willed  to  "  Peggy,"  and  re- 
ported to  the  captain.  His  permission  granted,  I  tossed  my  bundle  into 
the  company  launch,  and,  with  one  English  half-penny  jingleless  in  my 
pocket,  set  foot  on  the  verdant  island  of  Ceylon. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    REALMS    OF    GAUTAMA 

DIFFICULT,  indeed,  would  it  be  to  choose  a  more  striking  in- 
troduction to  the  wonderland  of  the  Far  East  than  that  egg- 
shaped  remnant  left  over  from  the  building  of  India.  How 
incomplete  and  lusterless  seems  the  picture  drawn  by  the  anticipating 
imagination  when  one  stands  at  last  in  the  midst  of  its  prolific, 
kaleidoscopic  life!  Sharp  and  vivid  are  the  impressions  that  come 
crowding  on  the  traveler  in  jumbled,  disordered  succession,  and  he 
experiences  a  confusion  such  as  comes  with  the  first  glance  at  a  great 
painting.  He  must  look  again  and  again  before  the  underlying  con- 
ception stands  out  clearly  through  the  mass  of  unfamiliar  detail. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  the  white  man  of  peripatetic  mood 
had  not  found  his  way  to  this  Eden  of  the  eastern  seas.  Within  ten 
minutes  of  my  landing  I  was  greeted  by  a  score  of  "  beachcombers  " 
gathered  in  the  black  shade  under  the  portico  of  a  large  government 
building.  In  garb,  they  were  men  of  means.  It  costs  nothing  worth 
mentioning  to  keep  spotless  the  jacket  and  trousers  of  thinnest  cotton 
that  make  up  the  wardrobe  of  the  Indias.  More  than  their  sun-baked 
faces,  their  listless  movements  and  ingrown  indolence  betrayed  them 
as  ''  vags."  Those  of  the  band  who  were  not  stretched  out  at  full 
length  on  the  flagging  of  the  veranda  dangled  their  feet  from  the  en- 
circling railing  or  leaned  against  the  massive  pillars,  puffing  lazily  at 
pipe  or  cigarette.  On  the  greensward  below,  two  natives  sat  on  their 
heels  before  portable  stands,  rising  now  and  then  to  pour  out  a  glass 
of  tea  for  the  "  comber  "  who  tossed  a  Ceylon  cent  at  their  feet. 

Theoretically,  the  party  had  gathered  to  seek  employment.  The 
morning  hour,  slmce  time  immemorial,  had  called  the  exiles  together 
in  the  shade  of  the  shipping  office  to  lay  in  wait  for  any  stranger, 
the  "  cut  of  whose  jib  "  stamped  him  as  a  captain.  "  Shipping,"  how- 
ever, was  dull.  Imbued  with  the  habit,  "  the  boys "  continued  to 
gather,  but  into  their  drowsy  yarning  rarely  intruded  the  fear  of  being 
driven  forth  from  this  island  paradise. 

Now  and  again  some  energetic  member  of  the  band  rose  to  peer 

251 


252       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

through  the  open  door  of  the  shipping  office;  yet  retreated  hastily, 
for  a  roar  as  of  an  angry  bull  was  the  invariable  greeting  from 
within.  When  courage  came,  I  ventured  to  glance  inside.  A  burly 
Englishman,  as  nearly  naked  as  a  mild  sense  of  propriety  permitted,  lay 
on  his  back  in  a  reclining  chair,  on  the  arm  of  which  he  threw  a 
mass  of  typewritten  sheets  every  half-minute,  to  mop  up  the  perspira- 
tion that  poured  down  his  rotund  face  and  hairy  chest  in  spite  of 
the  heavy  velvet  punkahs  that  swung  slowly  back  and  forth  above 
him. 

"  Shippin'  master,"  volunteered  a  recumbent  Irishman  behind  me. 
"  But  divil  a  man  dast  disturb  'im.  If  you  valy  your  loife,  kape  out 
of  'is  soight." 

At  noonday  the  office  closed.  The  beachcombers  wandered  lan- 
guidly away  to  some  other  shaded  spot,  and  seeking  refuge  from  the 
equatorial  sun  in  a  neighboring  park,  I  dreamed  away  my  first  day's 
freedom  from  the  holly-stone.  A  native  runner  roused  me  towards 
nightfall  and  thrust  into  my  hands  a  card  setting  forth  the  virtues 
of  "  The  Original  and  Well-Recognized  Sailors'  Boarding  House  of 
Colombo,  under  Proprietorship  of  C.  D.  Almeida."  It  was  a  two- 
story  building  in  the  native  quarter  of  Pettah,  of  stone  floor,  but 
otherwise  of  the  lightest  wooden  material.  The  dining-room,  in  the 
center  of  the  establishment,  boasted  no  roof.  Narrow,  windowless 
chambers  of  the  second  story,  facing  this  open  space,  housed  the  sea- 
faring guests. 

Almeida,  the  proprietor,  was  a  Singhalese  of  purest  caste.  ,  His 
white  silk  jacket  was  modestly  decorated  with  red  braid  and  glistening 
brass  buttons.  Beneath  the  folds  of  a  skirt  of  gayest  plaid  peeped 
feet  that  had  never  known  the  restraint  of  shoes,  the  toes  of  which 
stood  out  staunchly  independent  one  from  another.  For  all  his  oc- 
cupation he  clung  stoutly  to  the  symbols  of  his  social  superiority  — 
tiny  pearl  earrings  and  a  huge  circle  comb  of  celluloid.  Fate  had  been 
unkind  to  Almeida.  Though  his  fellow-countrymen,  with  rarely  an 
exception,  boasted  thick  tresses  of  long,  raven-tinted  hair,  the  boarding 
master  was  well  nigh  bald.  His  gray  and  scanty  locks  did  little  more 
than  streak  his  black  scalp,  and  the  art  of  a  lifetime  of  hair  dressing 
could  not  make  the  knob  at  the  back  of  his  head  larger  than  a  hickory 
nut.  Obviously  no  circle  comb  could  sit  in  position  so  insecure ;  at  in- 
tervals as  regular  as  the  ticking  of  his  great  silver  watch,  that  of  Al- 
meida dropped  on  the  ground  behind  him.    Wherever  he   moved, 


An  outrigger  canoe  and  an  outdoor  laundry  in  Colombo,  Ceylon 


Road-repairers  of  Ceylon.     Highway  between  Colombo  and  Kandy 


<l 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  253 

there  slunk  at  his  heels  a  native  urchin  who  had  known  no  other  task 
in  many  a  month  than  that  of  restoring  to  its  place  the  ornament  of 
caste. 

The  simple  formality  of  signing  a  promise-to-pay  made  me  a  guest. 
Four  white  men  and  as  many  black  leaned  their  elbows  on  the  un- 
planed  table,  awaiting  the  evening  meal.  In  an  adjoining  grotto,  two 
natives  were  stumbling  over  each  other  around  a  kettle  and  a  fire  of 
fagots.  Both  were  clothed  in  the  scantiest  of  breechclouts.  Now 
and  then  they  squatted  on  their  smoothly  polished  heels,  scratched 
savagely  at  some  portion  of  their  scrawny  bodies,  and  sprang  up 
again  to  plunge  both  hands  into  the  kettle. 

In  due  time  the  mess  grew  too  hot  for  stirring.  The  pair  resumed 
their  squat  and  burst  forth  in  a  dreadful  chatter  of  falsetto  voices. 
Then  fell  ominous  silence.  Suddenly  the  cooks  dashed  into  the 
smoke  that  veiled  the  entrance  to  the  cave,  and,  flinging  themselves 
upon  the  caldron,  dragged  it  forth  into  the  dining-room.  The  senior 
scooped  out  handfuls  of  steaming  rice  and  filled  our  plates.  The 
younger  returned  to  the  smoky  cavern  and  laid  hold  on  a  smaller  pot 
that  contained  a  curry  of  chopped  fish.  Besides  these  two  delicacies, 
there  were  bananas  in  abundance  and  a  chettie  of  water,  brackish,  dis- 
colored and  lukewarm. 

Having  distributed  heavy  pewter  spoons  among  the  guests,  the 
cooks  filled  a  battered  basin  with  rice  and,  dropping  on  their  haunches, 
thrust  the  food  into  their  mouths  with  both  hands.  The  blazing 
fagots  turned  to  dying  embers,  the  wick  that  floated  in  a  bottle  of  oil 
lighted  up  a  bare  corner  of  the  table,  and  the  rising  moon,  falling 
upon  the  naked  figures,  cast  weird  shadows  across  the  uneven  floor. 

Almeida  took  his  leave.  The  dropping  of  his  comb  sounded  twice 
or  thrice  between  the  dining-room  and  the  street,  and  the  patter  of 
his  bare  feet  mingled  with  the  whisper  of  the  night  outside.  I  laid 
my  head  on  a  hand  as  a  sign  of  sleepiness,  and  a  cook  led  the  way  to 
the  second  story  and  into  one  of  the  narrow  rooms.  It  was  furnished 
with  three  wooden  tables  of  Dachshund  legs.  From  two  pegs  in  the 
wall  hung  several  diaphanous  tropical  garments,  the  property  of  my 
unknown  roommates.  I  inquired  for  my  bed;  but  the  cook  spoke  no 
English,  and  I  sat  down  on  the  nearest  table  to  await  a  more  com- 
municative mortal. 

A  long  hour  afterward  two  white  men  stumbled  up  the  stairs,  the 
first  carrying  a  candle  high  above  his  head.     He  was  lean  and  sallow, 


254       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

gray-haired  and  clean  shaven,  with  something  in  his  manner  that 
spoke  of  better  days.  His  companion  was  a  burly,  tow-headed 
Swede. 

"  Oho !  Ole,"  grinned  the  older  man ;  "  here  's  a  new  bunkie.  Why 
don't  you  turn  in,  mate  ? " 

"  Have  n't  found  my  bed  yet,"  I  answered. 

"  Your  bed !  "  cried  the  newcomer,  "  Why,  damn  it,  man,  you  're  sit- 
ting on  it." 

I  followed  the  example  of  the  pair  in  reducing  my  attire  to  the 
regulation  coolie  costume  and,  turning  my  bundled  clothing  into  a  pil- 
low, sweated  out  the  night. 

Over  the  tea,  bananas,  and  cakes  of  ground  cocoanut  that  made 
up  the  Almeida  breakfast,  I  exchanged  yarns  with  my  companions  of 
the  night.  The  Swede  was  merely  a  sailor ;  the  older  man  a  less  com- 
monplace being.  He  was  an  Irishman  named  John  Askins,  a  master 
of  arts  of  Dublin  University  and  a  civil  engineer  by  profession. 
Twenty  years  before,  an  encroaching  asthma  had  driven  him  from  his 
native  island.  In  his  wanderings  through  every  tropical  country  under 
British  rule,  he  had  picked  up  a  fluent  use  of  half  the  dialects  of  the 
east,  from  the  clicking  Kaffir  to  the  guttural  tongue  of  Kabul.  Not  by 
choice  was  Askins,  M.  A.,  a  vagabond.  Periodically,  however,  em- 
ployment failed  him  and  he  fell,  as  now,  into  the  ranks  of  those  who 
listened  open-mouthed  —  when  he  chose  to  abandon  the  slang  of  "  the 
road  "  and  the  forecastle  —  to  his  professorial  diction. 

Brief  as  was  my  acquaintance  with  Ceylon,  I  had  already  discovered 
two  possible  openings  to  the  wage-earning  class.  The  first  was  to 
join  the  police  force.  Half  the  European  officers  of  Colombo  had 
once  been  beachcombers.  Between  them  and  our  band  existed  a 
liaison  so  close  that  the  misdemeanors  of  *'  the  boys  "  were  rarely 
punished,  and  more  than  one  white  castaway  was  housed  surreptitiously 
in  the  barracks  on  Slave  Island.  I  had  no  hesitancy,  therefore,  in 
applying  for  information  to  the  Irishman  whose  beat  embraced  the 
cricket-ground  separating  Pettah  from  the  European  quarter. 

He  painted  the  life  in  uniform  in  glowing  colors.  His  salary  was 
fifty  rupees  a  month.  No  princely  income,  surely,  for  bear  in  mind 
that  it  takes  three  rupees  to  make  a  dollar.  The  "  graft,"  too,  he 
admitted  sadly,  was  next  to  nothing.  Yet  he  supported  a  wife  —  a 
white  one,  at  that,  strange  to  say  —  and  three  children,  kept  several 
servants,  owned  a  house  of  his  own,  and  increased  his  bank  account 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  255 

on  every  pay  day.  Ludicrous,  you  know,  is  the  cost  of  living  in 
Ceylon. 

I  hurried  eagerly  away  to  the  office  of  the  superintendent  of 
police.  An  awkward  squad  of  white  recruits  was  sprinkling  with  per- 
spiration the  green  before  the  government  bungalow,  from  which  a 
servant  emerged  to  inquire  my  errand.  The  alacrity  with  which  I 
was  admitted  to  the  inner  sanctum  aroused  within  me  visions  of  my- 
self in  uniform  that  were  by  no  means  dispelled  by  the  hasty  exam- 
ination to  which  the  superintendent  subjected  me. 

"  Yes !  Yes !  "  he  broke  in,  before  I  had  answered  his  last  question ; 
"  I  think  we  can  take  you  on  all  right.  By  the  way,  what  part  of  the 
country  are  you  from  ?    You  '11  be  from  Yorkshire  side,  I  take  it  ?  " 

"  United  States." 

"  A-oh !  You  don't  say  so  ?  An  American !  Really,  you  don't 
look  it,  you  know.  What  a  shame !  Had  a  beat  all  picked  out  for  you. 
But  as  an  American  you  'd  better  go  to  the  Philippines  and  apply  on  the 
force  there.  We  can't  give  you  anything  in  Ceylon  or  India,  don't 
you  know.     Awfully  sorry.     Good  day." 

None  but  a  man  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  Far  East  could  have 
conceived  my  second  scheme  in  one  sleepless  night.  It  was  suggested 
by  the  fact  that,  in  earlier  years,  I  had,  as  the  Englishman  puts  it,  "  gone 
in  for  "  cross-country  running.  Returning  to  Almeida's,  I  soon  picked 
up  a  partner  for  the  projected  enterprise.  He  was  a  young  and  lanky 
Englishman,  who,  though  he  had  never  indulged  in  athletic  sports, 
was  certain  that  in  eluding  for  a  decade  the  police  of  four  continents 
he  had  developed  a  record-breaking  stride. 

In  a  shady  corner  of  Gordon  Gardens  we  arranged  the  details  of 
our  plan,  which  was  —  why  not  admit  it  at  once?  —  to  become  'rick- 
shaw runners.  The  hollow-chested  natives  who  plied  this  equestrian 
vocation  leased  their  vehicles  from  the  American  consul.  That  official 
surely  would  be  glad  to  rent  the  two  fine,  new  carriages  that  stood 
idle  in  his  establishment.  The  license  would  cost  little.  Cloth  slip- 
pers that  sold  for  a  few  cents  in  the  bazaars  would  render  us  as 
light-footed  as  our  competitors.  We  could  not,  of  course,  offer  in- 
discriminate service.  Half  the  population  of  Colombo  would  have 
swept  down  upon  us,  clamoring  for  the  unheard-of  honor  of  riding  be- 
hind a  sahib.  But  nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  hang  above  our 
licenses  the  announcement,  "  for  white  men  only." 

"  By  thunder,"  enthused  the  Briton,  as  we  turned  out  into  the  sun- 


256      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

light  once  more,  **  it 's  a  new  scheme  all  right,  absolutely  unique.  It 's 
sure  to  attract  attention  mighty  quick." 

It  did.  So  quickly,  in  fact,  that  had  there  been  a  white  police- 
man within  call  when  we  broached  the  subject  to  the  American  con- 
sul, we  should  have  found  lodging  at  once  in  two  nicely  padded 
chambers  of  the  city  hospital. 

"  Did  you  two  lunatics,"  shrieked  my  fellow-countryman,  from  be- 
hind the  protecting  bulwark  of  his  desk,  "  ever  hear  of  Caste?  Would 
the  Europeans  patronize  you  ?  You  bet  they  would  —  with  a  fine  coat 
of  tar  and  feathers !  You  'd  need  it,  too,  for  those  long,  slim  knives 
the  runners  carry.  Of  all  the  idiotic  schemes!  Why,  you  —  you  — 
don't  you  know  that 's  a  crime  —  or,  if  it  is  n't,  the  governor  would 
make  it  one  in  about  ten  minutes.  Go  lie  in  the  shade  somewhere 
until  you  get  your  senses  —  if  you  've  got  one !  " 

Years  ago,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  day  of  the  enter- 
prising young  man  is  past.  But  it  was  cruel  of  the  consul  to  put 
the  matter  so  baldly.  Luckily,  the  Englishman  possessed  four  cents  or 
we  should  have  been  denied  the  bitter  joy  of  drowning  our  grief  and 
dissolving  our  partnership  in  a  glass  of  arrack. 

From  the  distance  of  the  western  world  the  rate  in  Almeida's 
boarding  house  —  a  half  rupee  a  day  —  does  not  seem  exorbitant.  It 
was,  however.  In  the  native  restaurants  that  abounded  in  Colombo, 
one  could  live  on  half  that  amount;  and  as  for  lodging  —  what  utter 
foolishness  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  sleeping  on  a  short-legged 
table  when  the  ground  was  so  much  softer?  No  sooner,  therefore,  had 
a  pawnbroker  of  Pettah  appraised  my  useless  winter  garments  at 
two  rupees  than  I  paid  my  bill  at  the  *'  Original  Boarding  House  "  and 
became  resident  at  large. 

On  the  edge  of  the  native  section  stood  an  eating  shop  that  had  won 
the  patronage  of  half  the  beachcombers  in  the  city.  It  was  a  low, 
thatched  shanty,  constructed,  like  its  neighbors,  chiefly  of  bamboo. 
The  front  wall  —  unless  the  canvas  curtain  that  warded  off  the  blazing 
sunshine  be  reckoned  such  —  was  all  doorway,  before  which  stood  a 
platform  heaped  high  with  multicolored  tropical  fruits. 

A  dozen  white  men  bawled  out  a  greeting  as  I  pushed  aside  the 
curtain  and  crowded  into  a  place  on  one  of  the  creaking  benches 
around  the  table.  At  the  entrance  stood  the  proprietor,  guarding  a 
home-made  safe,  and  smiling  so  vociferously  upon  whomever  added  to 
its  contents  that  his  circle  comb  rose  and  fell  with  the  exertion. 
Plainly  in  sight  of  the  yawning  customers,  in  a  smoke-choked  back 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  257 

room,  two  chocolate-colored  cooks,  who  had  evidently  divided  between 
them  a  garment  as  large  as  a  lady's  handkerchief,  toiled  over  a 
long  row  of  kettles. 

The  dinner  was  table  d'hote,  and  cost  four  cents.  A  naked  boy 
set  before  me  a  heaping  plate  of  rice,  four  bananas,  a  glass  of  tea, 
and  six  small  dishes  of  curried  vegetables,  meat,  and  shrimps.  The 
time  had  come  when  I  must  learn,  like  my  companions,  to  dispense  with 
table  utensils.  I  began  the  first  lesson  by  following  the  movements 
of  my  fellow-guests.  Each  dug  in  the  center  of  his  mound  of  rice  a 
hole  of  the  size  of  a  coffee-cup.  Into  this  he  dumped  the  curries  one 
after  another  and  buried  them  by  pushing  in  the  sides  of  the  excava- 
tion. The  interment  finished,  he  fell  upon  the  mess  with  both  hands, 
and  mixed  the  ingredients  as  the  "  board-bucker  "  mixes  concrete  — 
by  shoveling  it  over  and  over. 

Let  no  one  fancy  that  the  Far  East  has  no  etiquette  of  the  table.  It 
was  the  height  of  ill-breeding,  for  example,  to  grasp  a  handful  of  food 
and  eat  it  from  the  open  palm.  Obviously,  the  Englishman  beside  me 
had  received  careful  Singhalese  training.  Without  bending  a  joint  of 
his  hand,  he  plunged  it  into  the  mixture  before  him,  drew  his  fingers 
closely  together,  and,  thrusting  his  hand  to  the  base  of  the  thumb 
into  his  mouth,  sucked  off  the  food  by  taking  a  long,  quick  breath. 

I  imitated  him,  gasped,  choked,  and  clutched  at  the  bench  with  both 
hands,  while  the  tears  ran  in  rivulets  down  my  cheeks.  'Twas  my 
introduction  to  the  curries  of  Ceylon.  A  mouthful  of  cayenne  pepper 
would  have  tasted  like  ice  cream  in  comparison.  The  stuff  was  so 
calorific  —  in  chillies,  not  in  temperature  —  that  it  burned  my  fin- 
gers. 

"  Hot,  Yank  ?  "  grinned  the  Englishman.  "  That 's  what  all  the  lads 
finds  'em  when  they  first  get  out  here.  In  a  week  they  '11  be  just 
right.  In  a  month  you  '11  be  longin'  for  Madras  where  they  make  'em 
'otter." 

The  dinner  over,  the  guests  threw  under  their  feet  the  food  that  re- 
mained; washed  their  fingers,  surreptitiously,  of  course,  in  a  chettie 
of  drinking  water;  and  sauntered  out  into  the  star-lit  night.  Across 
the  way  lay  the  cricket  ground  of  Colombo,  a  twelve-acre  field,  si- 
lent and  deserted.  While  the  policeman  yawned  at  the  far  end  of  his 
beat,  I  scrambled  over  the  bamboo  fence,  and,  choosing  a  spot  where 
the  grass  was  not  entirely  worn  off,  went  to  bed.  The  proverbial 
white  elephant  was  never  more  of  a  burden  than  my  kodak  had  be- 
come. Hitherto,  I  had  easily  concealed  it  in  a  pocket  of  my  corduroy 
17 


258       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

coat.  Now  my  entire  wardrobe  could  have  been  packed  inside  the 
apparatus,  and  wherever  I  wandered  I  was  forced  to  lug  the  thing 
under  one  arm,  like  a  pet  poodle,  wrapped  in  a  ragged  cover  that  de- 
ceived the  covetous  as  to  its  real  value.  By  night  it  served  as  pillow, 
and  so  fixed  a  habit  had  its  possession  become,  that  I  ran  no  more 
risk  of  leaving  it  behind  than  of  going  away  without  my  cap. 

The  grassy  slope  was  as  soft  as  a  mattress,  the  tepid  night  breeze 
just  the  right  covering.  I  quickly  fell  asleep.  A  feeling,  as  of  some- 
one close  at  hand,  aroused  me.  Slowly  I  opened  my  eyes.  Within  a 
foot  of  me,  his  naked  body  glistening  in  the  moonlight,  crouched  a 
coolie.  I  bounded  to  my  feet.  But  the  native  was  quicker  than  I. 
With  a  leap  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  kangaroo,  he  shot  sud- 
denly into  the  air,  landed  noiselessly  on  his  bare  feet  some  three 
yards  away,  and,  before  I  could  take  a  step  in  his  direction,  was 
gone. 

Midnight,  certainly,  had  passed.  The  flanking  streets  were  utterly 
deserted.  Not  a  light  shone  in  the  long  rows  of  shops.  Only  the 
ceaseless  chanting  of  myriads  of  insects  tempered  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  I  drew  a  cord  from  my  pocket,  tied  one  end  to  the  kodak  and 
another  to  a  wrist,  and  lay  down  again.  The  precaution  was  wisely 
taken.  A  tug  at  my  arm  awakened  me  a  second  time  and,  as  I  started 
up,  a  black  rascal,  closely  resembling  my  first  visitor,  scampered  away 
across  the  playground.  Dawn  was  drawing  a  thin  gray  line  on  the 
black  canvas  of  night.  I  left  my  bed  unmade  and  wandered  away 
into  the  city. 

Before  the  sun  was  high  I  had  found  employment.  A  resident  in 
the  Cinnamon  Gardens  had  advertised  for  a  carpenter,  and  for  the 
three  days  following  I  superintended  the  labors  of  a  band  of  coolies  in 
laying  a  hardwood  floor  in  his  bungalow.  During  that  period,  a 
rumor,  spreading  among  the  beachcombers,  aroused  them  to  new 
wakefulness.  Colombo  was  soon  to  be  visited  by  a  circus !  It  was  not 
that  the  mixed  odor  of  sawdust  and  pink  lemonade  appealed  greatly  to 
"  the  boys,"  But  tradition  whispered  that  the  annual  show  would 
bring  employment  to  more  than  one  whose  curry  and  rice  advanced 
with  laggard  steps. 

Dropping  in  at  Almeida's  when  my  task  was  ended,  I  found  Askins 
agog  with  news  of  the  coming  spectacle. 

"  She  '11  be  here  in  a  week  or  ten  days,"  he  cried,  gayly.  "  That 
means  a  few  dibs  a  day  for  some  of  us.  For  circuses  must  have  white 
men.     Niggers  won't  do.     That 's  our  game,  Franck.     Just  lay  low  and 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  259 

when  she  blows  in,  we  '11  swoop  down  on  the  supe  and  get  our  cog- 
noms  on  the  pay  roll. 

"  Or  say ! "  he  went  on,  in  more  excited  tones.  "  Better  still ! 
You  won't  need  to  lie  idle  meantime,  either.  An  idea  strikes  me. 
Remember  the  arrack  shop  where  the  two  stokers  set  us  up  a  bottle 
of  fire-water  the  other  day?  Well,  just  across  the  street  is  the  Salva- 
tion Army.  Now  you  waltz  down  to  the  meeting  there  to-night  and 
get  converted.  They  '11  hand  you  down  a  swell  white  uniform,  put 
you  right  in  a  good  hash-house,  and  throw  a  few  odd  grafts  in  your 
way.  All  you  '11  have  to  do  '11  be  to  baste  a  drum  or  something  of  the 
kind  twice  a  day,  and  you  can  have  quite  a  few  chips  tucked  away  by 
the  time  the  circus  comes." 

"  Good  scheme,"  I  answered,  "  but  I  Ve  got  a  few  chips  tucked  away 
now,  and  if  she  is  n't  due  for  ten  days  that  will  give  me  time  for  a 
jaunt  into  the  interior  of  the  island." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  ramble  worth  making,"  admitted  the  Irishman,  "  but 
look  out  for  the  sun,  and  be  sure  you're  on  hand  again  for  the  big 
show." 

The  city  of  Colombo  is  well  spread  out.  Though  I  set  off  early 
next  morning,  it  was  nearly  noon  when  I  crossed  the  Victoria  bridge 
at  Grand  Pass  and  struck  the  open  country.  Great  was  the  contrast 
between  the  Ceylon  of  my  imagination  and  the  reality.  A  riot  of 
tropical  vegetation  spread  out  on  every  hand;  in  the  dense  shadows 
swarmed  naked  humans  uncountable.  But  jungle  was  there  none, 
neither  wild  men,  nor  savage  beasts.  Every  acre  was  producing  for 
the  tise  of  man.  The  highway  was  wide,  well-built  as  in  Europe,  close 
flanked  on  either  side  by  thick  forests  of  towering  palm  trees.  Here 
and  there,  bands  of  coolies  repaired  the  roadway,  or  fought  back  the 
aggressive  vegetation  with  ax-like  knives.  Clumsy,  broad-wheeled 
bullock  carts,  in  appearance  like  our  "  prairie  schooners,"  creaked  by 
behind  humped  oxen  ambling  seaward  at  a  snail's  pace.  Under  his 
protecting  roof,  made,  not  of  canvas,  as  the  first  glimpse  suggested, 
but  of  thousands  of  leaves  sewn  together,  the  scrawny  driver  grinned 
cheerily  and  mumbled  some  strange  word  of  greeting.  Even  the  heat 
was  less  infernal  than  I  had  anticipated.  The  glare  of  sunshine  was 
dazzling;  a  wrist  uncovered  for  a  moment  was  burned  red  as  with  a 
branding-iron ;  my  face  shown  browner  in  the  mirror  of  each  passing 
stream;  but  often  are  the  sun's  rays  more  debilitating  on  a  summer 
day  at  home. 

In  the  forest  the  slim  bamboo  and  the  broad-leafed  banana  tree 


26o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

abounded ;  but  the  cocoanut  palm  predominated.  In  every  grove,  pre- 
hensile coolies,  armed  with  heavy  knives,  walked  up  the  slender  trunks, 
and,  hiding  themselves  in  the  tuft  of  leaves  sixty  feet  above,  chopped 
off  the  nuts  in  clusters  of  three.  One  could  have  recited  a  poem  be- 
tween the  moment  of  their  launching  and  the  time  when  they  struck 
the  soft,  spongy  earth,  to  rebound  high  into  the  air.  'Tis  a  national 
music,  the  dull,  muffled  thump  of  cocoanuts,  as  reminiscent,  ever  after, 
of  dense,  tropical  forests  as  the  tinkle  of  the  donkey  bell  of  Spain,  or 
the  squawk  of  the  water  wheel  of  Egypt. 

I  stepped  aside  from  the  highway  in  the  mid-afternoon,  and  lay 
down  on  a  grassy  slope  under  shielding  palms.  A  crackling  of  twigs 
drew  my  attention,  and,  catching  sight  of  a  pair  of  eyes  filled  with 
mute  wonder,  I  nodded  reassuringly.  A  native,  dressed  in  a  ribbon  and 
a  tangle  of  oily  hair,  stepped  from  behind  a  great  drooping  banana 
leaf  and  advanced  with  faltering  steps.  Behind  him  emerged  a  score 
of  men  and  boys,  as  heavily  clothed  as  the  leader;  and  the  band,  smil- 
ing like  a  company  of  ballet  dancers  en  scene,  moved  forward  hesi- 
tatingly, halting  frequently  to  exchange  signs  of  mutual  encourage- 
men.  Their  timidity  was  in  strange  contrast  to  the  boisterous  or 
menacing  attitude  of  the  Arab.  One  felt  that  a  harsh  word  or  a 
gesture  of  annoyance  would  have  sent  these  deferential  country-folk 
scampering  away  through  the  forest.  A  white  man,  whatever  his 
station  in  life,  is  a  tin  god  in  Ceylon. 

With  a  simultaneous  gurgle  of  greeting,  the  natives  squatted  in 
a  semicircle  at  the  foot  of  the  knoll  on  which  I  lay,  as  obsequious 
in  manner  as  loyal  subjects  come  to  do  homage  to  their  cannibal 
king.  We  chatted,  intelligibly  if  not  glibly,  in  the  language  of  signs. 
My  pipe  aroused  great  curiosity.  When  it  had  burned  out,  I  turned  it 
over  to  the  leader.  He  passed  it  on  to  his  companions,  each  and  all 
of  whom,  to  my  horror,  tested  the  strange  thing  by  thrusting  the  stem 
halfway  down  his  throat  and  sucking  fiercely  at  it.  Even  when  they 
had  examined  every  other  article  in  my  knapsack,  my  visitors  were 
not  content,  and  implored  me  with  tears  in  their  eyes  to  give  them 
leave  to  open  my  kodak.  I  distracted  their  attention  by  a  careful 
inspection  of  their  tools  and  betel-nut  pouches.  With  truly  Spanish 
generosity  they  insisted  on  presenting  me  with  every  article  that  I 
asked  to  see;  and  then  sneaked  round  behind  me  to  carry  off  the  gift 
while  I  was  examining  another. 

I  rose  to  continue  my  way,  but  the  natives  burst  out  in  vigorous 
protest,    and,    despatching   three   youths   on    some    unknown    errand, 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  261 

dropped  again  on  their  haunches  and  fell  to  preparing  new  chews 
of  betel-nut.  The  emissaries  soon  returned,  one  carrying  a  jack- 
fruit,  another  a  bunch  of  bananas,  and  the  third  swinging  three 
green  cocoanuts  by  the  rope-like  stem.  The  leader  laid  the  gifts, 
one  after  another,  at  my  feet.  Two  men  armed  with  jungle  knives 
sprang  forward,  and  while  one  hacked  at  the  adamantine  jack-fruit, 
the  other  caught  up  a  cocoanut,  chopped  off  the  top  with  one  stroke, 
and  invited  me  to  drink.  The  milk  —  the  national  beverage  of  Cey- 
lon—  was  cool  and  refreshing,  but  the  meat  of  the  green  nut  as  in- 
edible as  a  leather  strap.  The  jack-fruit,  of  the  size  and  appearance 
of  a  water  melon,  was  split  at  last  into  longitudinal  slices.  These,  in 
turn,  split  sidewise  into  dozens  of  segments  not  unlike  those  of  the 
orange,  each  one  containing  a  large,  kidney-shaped  stone.  The  meat 
itself  was  white,  coarse-grained,  and  rather  tasteless.  The  bananas 
were  smaller,  but  more  savory  than  those  of  the  West  Indies.  When 
I  had  sampled  each  of  the  gifts,  I  distributed  them  among  the  do- 
nators,  and  turned  down  to  the  highway. 

It  is  easy  to  account  for  the  vagabond's  fondness  for  tropical 
lands.  He  loves  to  strut  about  among  reverential  black  men  in 
all  the  glory  of  a  white  skin ;  it  flatters  him  astonishingly  to  have 
native  policemen  and  soldiers  draw  up  at  attention  and  salute  as  he 
passes ;  he  adores,  of  course,  the  lazy  indolence  of  the  East.  But  all 
these  things  are  as  nothing  compared  with  his  one  great  advantage 
over  his  brother  in  northern  lands.  He  escapes  the  terror  of  the 
coming  night.  Only  he  who  has  roamed  penniless  through  a  colder 
world  can  know  this  dread ;  how,  like  an  oppressive  cloud,  rising  on 
the  horizon  of  each  new  day,  it  casts  its  gloom  over  every  niggardly 
atom  of  good  fortune.  In  the  north  one  must  have  shelter.  Other 
things  which  the  world  calls  necessities  the  vagrant  may  do  without, 
but  the  night  will  not  be  put  off  like  hunger  and  thirst.  In  the 
tropics?  In  Ceylon?  Bah!  What  is  night  but  a  more  comfortable 
day?  If  it  grows  too  dark  for  tramping,  one  lies  down  in  the  bed 
under  his  feet  and  rises,  refreshed,  with  the  new  dawn. 

From  my  forest  lodging  bordering  the  twenty-first  mile  post,  I  set 
out  on  the  second  day's  tramp  before  the  country  people  were  astir. 
The  highway,  bursting  forth  from  the  encircling  palm  trees  now  and 
then,  stalked  across  a  small,  rolling  plain.  Villages  rose  with  every 
mile,  rambling,  two-row  hamlets  of  bamboo,  where  elbow  room  was 
ample.  Between  them,  isolated  thatched  cottages  peeped  from  beneath 
the   trees.     Here   were   none   of    the    densely-packed    collections   of 


2(i2       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

human  stys  so  general  in  Italy  and  the  land  of  the  Arab ;  for  Ceylon, 
four  centuries  tributary  to  Europe,  knows  not  the  fear  of  marauding 
bands. 

As  the  sun  climbed  higher,  grinning  groups  of  rustics  pattered  by, 
the  men  beclouted,  the  women  clad  in  a  short  skirt  and  a  shorter  waist, 
between  which  glistened  ten  inches  or  more  of  velvety  brown  skin. 
Hunger  and  thirst  come  often  in  the  tropics,  but  never  was  highway 
more  liberally  stocked  with  food  and  drink.  Half  the  houses  dis- 
played for  sale  the  fruits  of  the  surrounding  forest,  and  tea  and 
cocoanut  cakes  could  be  had  anywhere.  On  a  bamboo  pedestal  before 
every  hovel,  however  wretched,  stood  an  earthenware  chettie  of  water, 
beside  which  hung  as  a  drinking-vessel  the  half  of  a  cocoanut-shell ; 
commonly  slimy  and  moss-grown.  Great  was  the  joy  of  every  family 
whose  hut  I  entered  —  silent  joy,  generally,  for  the  unhoped-for  honor 
of  welcoming  a  white  man  left  one  and  all,  from  the  half-naked  wife 
to  the  babe  in  arms  —  no  household  lacked  the  latter  —  speechless 
with  awe  and  veneration.  They  are  charming  children,  these  smiling 
brown  people,  and  industrious,  though  moving  always  after  the  lan- 
guid manner  of  the  tropical  zone. 

Bathing  is  the  national  hobby  of  Ceylon.  Never  a  stream  crawling 
under  the  highway  but  was  alive  with  splashing  natives.  Mothers, 
plodding  along  the  route,  halted  at  every  rivulet  to  roll  a  banana 
leaf  into  a  cone-shaped  bucket  and  pour  uncounted  gallons  of  water 
on  their  sputtering  infants,  crouched  naked  on  the  bank  of  the  stream. 
Travelers  on  foot  or  by  bullock  cart  took  hourly  dips  en  route.  The 
husbandman  abandoned  his  tilling  at  frequent  intervals  to  plunge  into 
the  nearest  water  hole.  His  wife,  instead  of  calling  on  her  neighbors, 
met  them  at  the  brook  and,  turned  mermaid,  gossiped  in  cool  and  com- 
fort. The  men,  subjected  only  to  a  loin  cloth,  gave  no  heed  to  their 
clothing.  The  women,  wound  from  knees  to  armpits  in  gossamer-like 
sheets  of  snowy  white,  emerged  from  their  aquatic  couches  and, 
turning  themselves  round  and  round  in  the  blazing  sunshine  like 
spitted  fowls  over  a  fire,  marched  homeward  in  dry  garments. 

With  the  third  day  the  landscape  changed.  The  slightly  rolling 
lowlands  of  the  coast  gave  way  to  tea-clad  foothills,  heralding  the 
mountains  of  the  interior.  The  highway,  mounting  languidly,  offered 
noonday  vista  of  the  ranges  that  have  won  for  Ceylon  the  title  of 
"  Switzerland  of  the  tropics."  Here  were  none  of  the  rugged  peaks 
and  crags  of  the  Alps  nor  the  barren  wilderness  of  Palestine.  End- 
less, to  the  north  and  south,  hovering  in  a  sea-blue  haze,  stretched 


Singhalese  ladies  wear  only  a  skirt  and  a  short  waist,  between  which  several 

inches  of  brown  skin  are  visible 


A  Singhalese  woman  rarely  misses  an  opportunity  to  give  her  children  a  bath 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  263 

rolling  mountains,  thick  clothed  in  prolific  vegetation.  Unaggressive, 
efifeminate  they  seemed,  compared  with  northern  highlands ;  summits 
and  slopes  a  succession  of  graceful  curves,  with  never  an  angular 
stroke,  hills  plump  of  contour,  like  Ruben's  figures. 

Try  as  I  would,  I  had  not  succeeded  in  making  my  daily  expend- 
itures since  leaving  the  coast  more  than  ten  cents.  Near  the  sum- 
mit of  the  route  I  paused  at  an  amateur  shop  by  the  wayside.  It  was  a 
pathetic  little  hovel,  built  of  rubbish  picked  up  in  the  forest.  A  board, 
stretched  like  a  counter  across  the  open  doorway,  was  heavily  laden  with 
bananas.  Near  at  hand  a  plump,  brown  matron,  in  abbreviated  skirt 
and  a  waist  little  more  than  neckerchief,  was  spreading  out  grain  — 
with  her  feet  —  on  a  long  grass  mat.  Unfortunately,  the  list  of  Singha- 
lese words  that  I  had  jotted  down  at  the  dictation  of  Askins  lacked 
the  all-important  term  "  how  much."  I  pointed  at  the  fruit  and  tossed 
a  coin  on  the  counter.  It  was  a  copper  piece,  worth  one  and  three- 
fourths  cents ;  enough,  surely,  for  the  purchase  of  a  half-dozen  bananas. 
The  matron  approached,  picked  up  the  coin  gingerly,  and,  turning  it 
over  and  over  in  her  hand,  stared  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes.  Had 
I  been  niggardly  in  my  offer  ?  I  was  thrusting  a  hand  into  my  pocket 
for  another  copper,  when  the  female,  motioning  to  me  to  open  my 
knapsack,  dropped  into  it  three  dozen  bananas,  hesitated,  and,  assum- 
ing the  air  of  one  whose  conscience  is  master  of  his  cupidity,  added 
a  fourth  cluster. 

A  furlong  beyond,  in  a  shaded  elbow  of  the  route,  I  turned  to  the 
task  of  lightening  my  burden.  Small  success  would  have  crowned  my 
efforts  but  for  the  arrival  of  a  fellow-wayfarer.  He  was  a  man  of 
fifty  or  sixty,  blacker  of  skin  than  the  Singhalese.  A  ten-yard  strip 
of  cloth,  of  a  pattern  in  which  two-inch  stripes  of  white  and  brilliant  red 
alternated,  was  wrapped  round  his  waist  and  fell  to  his  knees.  Over 
his  head  was  folded  a  sheet  of  orange  hue.  In  either  hand  he  carried 
a  bundle,  wrapped  in  cloth  and  tied  with  green  vines.  The  upper  half 
of  his  face  was  that  of  meekness  personified;  the  rest  was  covered 
with  such  a  beard  as  one  might  swear  by,  deeply  streaked  with  gray. 

Painfully  he  limped  to  the  roadside,  and  squatted  on  his  heels  in  the 
edge  of  the  shade.     By  every  token  he  was  **  on  the  road." 

"  Have  a  bite.  Jack  ?  "  I  invited,  pushing  the  fruit  towards  him. 

A  child's  voice  squeaked  within  him.  Gravely  he  rose  to  his  feet 
to  express  his  gratitude  in  every  known  posture  of  the  human  figure 
except  that  of  standing  on  his  head.  That  formality  over,  he  fell  to 
with  a  will  —  and  both  hands  —  so  willingly  in  fact  that,  with  never  a 


264      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

pause  nor  a  choke,  he  made  way  with  twenty-eight  bananas.  Small 
wonder  if  he  would  have  slept  a  while  in  the  edge  of  the  shade  after  so 
noteworthy  a  feat. 

I  rose  to  plod  on,  however,  and  he  would  not  be  left  behind, —  far 
behind,  that  is.  Reiterated  solicitations  could  not  induce  him  to  walk 
beside  me;  he  pattered  always  two  paces  in  the  rear,  too  mindful  of 
his  own  inferiority  to  march  abreast  with  a  sahib.  From  the  gestures 
and  gasps  that  my  questions  drew  forth,  I  gathered  that  he  was  a 
yogi,  a,  holy  man  —  temporarily  at  least  —  bound  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
some  shrine  in  the  mountains.  Two  hours  beyond  our  meeting,  he 
halted  at  a  branch  road,  knelt  in  the  highway,  and,  ere  I  had  divined 
his  intention,  imprinted  a  sonorous  kiss  on  the  top  of  one  of  my 
Nazarene  slippers.  Only  my  dexterity  saved  the  other.  He  stood  up 
slowly,  almost  sadly,  as  one  grieved  to  part  from  good  company  —  or 
bananas,  shook  the  dust  of  the  route  from  his  beard,  and,  turning  into 
the  forest-throttled  byway,  was  gone. 

Night,  striding  over  the  mountains  in  the  seven-league  boots  he 
wears  in  the  tropics,  playfully  laid  hand  on  me  just  at  the  entrance 
to  the  inn  of  the  Sign  of  the  Palm  Tree.  The  landlord  demanded  no 
fee;  the  far-off  howling  of  dogs  lulled  me  to  sleep.  With  dawn,  I 
was  off  once  more.  Sunrise  waved  his  greeting  over  the  leafy  crests 
of  the  Peradiniya  Gardens,  and  her  European  residents,  lolling  in  their 
church-bound  'rickshaws,  stared  at  my  entrance  into  the  ancient  city 
of  Kandy. 

Centuries  ago,  this  mountain-girdled  metropolis  of  the  interior  was 
the  seat  of  the  native  king.  To-day,  the  monarch  of  Ceylon  is  a  bluff 
Englishman,  housed  within  sight  of  the  harbor  of  Colombo  in  a  stone 
mansion  more  appropriate  to  Regent's  Row  than  to  this  land  of  sway- 
ing palm  trees.  The  descendant  of  the  native  dynasty  still  holds  his 
mock  court  in  the  capital  of  his  forefathers,  strugglmg  against  the 
encroachment  of  trousers  and  cravats  and  the  wiles  of  courtiers  stoop- 
shouldered  with  the  wisdom  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  But  his 
duties  have  narrowed  down  to  that  of  upholding  the  ancestral  re- 
ligion. For  Kandy  is  a  holy  city.  Buddhists,  not  merely  of  Ceylon  but 
of  India  and  the  equatorial  islands,  make  pilgrimage  to  its  ancient 
shrine.  Long  before  the  coming  of  the  Nazarene,  tradition  whispers, 
there  was  found  in  Burma  one  of  the  teeth  of  Gautama,  the  Enlight- 
ened One.  How  it  came  to  be  picked  up  thus  far  from  the  burial 
place  of  the  Wandering  Prince  is  as  inexplicable  as  the  discovery  of 
splinters  of  the  true  Cross  in  strange  and  sundry  regions  far  distant 


I 


The  woman  who  sold  me  the  bananas 


The  thatch  roof  at  the  roadside,  under  which  I  slept  on  the 
second  night  of  my  tramp  to  Kandy 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  265 

from  Calvary.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a  rich  embassy  from  the  king  of 
Burma  bore  the  rehc  to  this  egg-shaped  island,  and  over  it  was  erected 
the  celebrated  ''  Temple  of  the  Tooth." 

It  is  a  time-vi^orn  structure  of  gray  stone,  simple  in  architecture  from 
the  view  point  of  the  Orient,  set  in  a  lotus  grove  on  the  shores  of  a 
crystal-clear  lake.  Mindful  of  the  assaults  that  I  had  more  than  once 
provoked  by  entering  a  house  of  worship  in  the  East,  I  contented  my- 
self with  a  circuit  of  its  double,  crenelated  walls  and  a  peep  up  the 
broad  steps  that  led  to  the  interior. 

The  keeper  of  the  inn  to  which  fate  assigned  me  had  two  sons,  who, 
thanks  to  the  local  mission-school,  spoke  fluent  English.  The  older 
was  a  youth  of  fifteen.  In  the  West  he  would  have  been  rated  a  child. 
Here  he  was  accepted  as  a  man,  to  whom  the  problems  of  life  had  al- 
ready taken  form.  Our  conversation  turned  naturally  to  the  subject 
of  rehgion;  naturally,  because  that  subject  is  always  first  and  foremost 
in  the  East.  His  religion  sets  for  the  Oriental  his  place  in  the  com- 
munity; it  tells  him  what  work  he  shall  do  all  the  days  of  his  Hfe,  what 
his  children  and  his  children's  children  shall  do.  According  to  the 
dictates  of  his  faith  he  eats  or  refrains  from  eating,  he  seeks  repose  or 
watches  out  the  night,  he  greets  his  fellow-beings  or  shuns  them  like 
dogs.  Society  is  honey-combed  with  sects  and  creeds  and  castes. 
Every  man  wears  some  visible  symbol  of  his  religion,  and  before  all  else 
he  scrutinizes  the  sign  of  caste  of  any  stranger  with  whom  he  comes  in 
contact.  No  secondary  matter,  nor  something  to  be  aired  once  a  week, 
is  a  man's  religion  in  the  East.  It  stalks  at  his  heels  as  relentlessly 
as  his  shadow  at  noonday. 

"  I  suppose,"  I  was  saying,  soon  after  the  son  of  the  innkeeper  had 
broached  this  unavoidable  topic,  "  I  suppose  that,  as  you  have  been  edu- 
cated in  a  Protestant  school,  you  are  a  Christian  ?  " 

The  youth  eyed  me  for  a  moment  with  noncommittal  gravity. 

"  May  I  know,"  he  asked  in  reply  —  to  change  the  subject,  I  fancied 
— "  whether  you  are  a  missionary?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  protested,  "  I  am  a  sailor." 

"  Because,"  he  went  on,  "  one  must  know  to  whom  one  speaks.  I 
am  a  Christian  always  —  when  I  am  in  school  or  talking  to  mission- 
aries. 

"  There  are  many  religions  in  the  world,  and  surely  that  of  the  white 
man  is  a  good  religion.  We  learn  much  more  that  is  useful  in  the 
schools  of  the  Christians  than  in  our  own.  But,  my  friend,"  he  leaned 
forward  with  the  earnestness  of  one  who  is  about  to  disclose  a  great  se- 


266      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

cret,  "  there  is  but  one  true  religion.  He  who  is  seeking  the  true  reh- 
gion  —  if  you  are  seeking  the  true  religion,  you  will  find  It  right  here 
in  our  island  of  Ceylon." 

It  comes  ever  back  to  that.  Hordes  of  missionaries  may  flock  to  the 
"  heathen  "  lands,  bulky  reports  anent  the  thousands  who  have  been 
"  gathered  into  the  fold  "  may  rouse  the  charity  of  the  pious  at  home ; 
yet  in  moments  -of  sober  earnest,  when,  in  the  words  of  Askins,  "  it 
comes  to  a  show-down,"  the  convert  beyond  seas  is  a  stout  cham- 
pion of  the  faith  of  his  ancestors. 

"  Many  people,"  continued  my  informant,  "  nearly  all  the  people  of 
Ceylon  who  would  learn  from  the  Christians,  who  are  hungry  and 
poor,  or  who  would  have  work,  pretend  the  religion  of  the  white  man. 
For  we  receive  more,  the  teachers  are  our  better  friends  if  we  tell  them 
we  are  Christians.  And  surely  we  do  the  right  in  saying  so  ?  We 
wish  all  to  please  the  missionaries  and  we  have  no  other  way  to  do; 
for  it  gives  them  much  pleasure  to  have  many  converts.  Have  you, 
I  wonder,"  he  concluded,  "  visited  our  Temple  of  the  Tooth." 

"  Outside,"  I  answered.     "  Are  sahibs  allowed  to  enter?  " 

"  Surely !  "  cried  the  youth,  "  The  Buddhists  have  not  exclusion. 
We  are  joyed  to  have  white  men  in  our  temples.  To-night,  we  are 
having  a  service  very  important  in  the  Temple  of  the  Tooth.  With  my 
uncle,  who  keeps  the  cloth-shop  across  the  way,  I  shall  go.  Will  you 
not  forget  your  religion  and  honor  us  by  coming  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered. 

Two  flaring  torches  threw  fantastic  shadows  over  the  chattering 
throng  of  Singhalese  that  bore  us  bodily  up  the  broad  stairway  to  the 
sacred  shrine.  In  the  outer  temple,  at  the  top  of  the  flight,  surged  a 
maudlin  multitude  around  a  dozen  booths  devoted  to  the  sale  of  can- 
dles, bits  of  cardboard,  and  the  white  lotus-flower  sacred  to  Gautama, 
the  Buddha.  Above  the  sharp-pitched  roar  of  the  faithful  sounded 
the  incessant  rattle  of  copper  coins.  The  smallest  child,  the  most 
ragged  mendicant,  struggled  against  the  human  stream  that  would  have 
swept  him  into  the  inner  temple,  until  he  had  bought  or  begged  a  taper 
or  flower  to  lay  in  the  lap  of  his  favorite  statue.  From  every  nook 
and  corner,  the  efiigy  of  the  Enlightened  One,  defying  in  posture 
the  laws  of  anatomy,  surveyed  the  scene  with  sad  serenity. 

Of  all  the  throng,  I  alone  was  shod.  I  dropped  my  slippers  at  the 
landing,  and,  half  expecting  a  stern  command  to  remove  my  socks,  ad- 
vanced into  the  brighter  light  of  the  interior.  A  whisper  rose  beside 
me  and  swelled  in  volume  as  it  passed  quickly  from  mouth  to  mouth :  — 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  267 

"  Sahib !  sahib !  "  I  had  dreaded  lest  my  coming  should  precipitate  a 
riot,  but  Buddha  himself,  arriving  thus  unannounced,  could  not  have 
w^on  more  boisterous  welcome.  The  worshipers  swept  down  upon 
me,  shrieking  their  hospitality.  Several  thrust  into  my  hands  newly 
purchased  blossoms,  another  —  strange  action,  it  seemed  then,  in  a 
house  of  worship  —  pressed  upon  me  a  badly-rolled  cigar  of  native 
make;  from  every  side  came  candles  and  matches.  At  the  tinkle  of  a 
far-of?  bell  the  natives  fell  back,  leaving  a  lane  for  our  passing.  Two 
saffron-robed  priests,  smiling  and  salaaming  at  every  step,  advanced 
to  meet  me  and  led  the  way  to  a  balcony  overlooking  the  lake. 

In  the  semi-darkness  of  a  corner  squatted,  in  scanty  breechclouts 
and  ample  turbans,  three  natives, —  low-caste  coolies,  no  doubt,  to 
whom  fell  the  menial  tasks  within  the  temple  inclosure;  for  before 
each  sat  what  appeared  to  be  a  large  basket.  I  took  station  near  them 
with  my  attendant  priests,  and  awaited  "  the  service  very  important." 

Suddenly  the  cornered  trio,  each  grasping  in  either  hand  a  weapon 
reminiscent  of  a  footpad's  billy,  stretched  their  hands  high  above  their 
heads  and  brought  them  down  with  a  crash  that  would  have  startled 
a  less  phlegmatic  sahib  out  of  all  sanity.  What  I  had  taken  for 
baskets  were  tom-toms!  Without  losing  a  single  beat,  the  drummers 
began,  with  the  third  or  fourth  stroke,  to  blow  lustily  on  long  pipes  from 
which  issued  a  plaintive  wailing.  I  spoke  no  more  with  my  inter- 
preter. For  the  "  musicians,"  having  pressed  into  service  every  sound- 
wave lingering  in  the  vicinity,  monopolized  them  during  the  ensuing 
two  hours.  Two  simple  rules  govern  the  production  of  Singhalese 
music:  first,  make  as  much  noise  as  possible  all  the  time;  second,  to 
heighten  the  effect,  make  more. 

Puffing  serenely  at  my  stogie,  I  marched  with  the  officiating  monks, 
who  had  given  me  place  of  honor  in  their  ranks,  from  one  shrine  to 
another.  Behind  us  surged  a  murmuring,  self-prostrating  multitude. 
No  one  sat  during  the  service,  and  there  was  nothing  resembling  a  ser- 
mon. The  priests  addressed  themselves  only  to  the  dreamy-eyed 
Buddhas,  and  craved  boons  or  chanted  their  gratitude  for  former  fa- 
vors in  a  rising  and  falling  monotone  in  which  I  caught,  now  and  then, 
the  rhythm  and  rhyme  of  poetry. 

It  was  late  when  the  service  ended.  The  boiler- factory  music  ceased 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  the  worshipers  poured  forth  into  the  Soft 
night,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  my  guides  and  a  dozen  priests. 

"  See,"  whispered  the  intermittent  Christian.  "  You  are  honored. 
The  head  man  of  the  temple  comes." 


268       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

An  aged  friar,  emerging  from  an  inner  shrine,  drew  near  slowly. 
In  outward  appearance,  he  was  an  exact  replica  of  the  surrounding 
priests.  A  brilliant  yellow  robe  was  his  only  garment.  His  head  was 
shaven ;  his  arms,  right  shoulder  and  feet,  bare. 

Having  joined  the  group,  he  studied  me  a  moment  in  silence,  then 
addressed  me  in  the  native  tongue. 

"  He  is  asking,"  explained  my  interpreter,  "  if  you  are  liking  to  see 
the  sacred  tooth  ?  " 

I  bowed  my  thanks.  The  high  priest  led  the  way  to  the  innermost 
shrine  of  the  temple,  a  chamber  in  arrangement  not  unlike  the  holy 
sepulchre  in  the  church  of  that  name  in  Jerusalem.  In  the  center  of 
the  vault  he  halted,  and,  imitated  in  every  movement  by  the  attendant 
priests  and  my  guide,  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  muttering  a  prayer  each 
time,  touched  his  forehead  to  the  pavement  thrice. 

Erect  once  more,  he  drew  from  the  tabernacle  before  him  a  gold 
casket  of  the  size  of  a  ditty-box.  From  it  he  took  a  second,  a  bit 
smaller,  and  handed  the  first  to  one  of  his  companions.  From  the  sec- 
ond he  drew  a  third,  from  the  third  a  fourth.  The  process  was  re- 
peated until  nearly  every  subordinate  priest  held  a  coffer,  some 
fantastically  wrought,  some  inlaid  with  precious  stones.  With  the 
opening  of  every  third  box  all  those  not  already  burdened  fell  on  their 
knees  and  repeated  their  first  genuflections.  There  appeared  at  last  the 
innermost  receptacle,  not  over  an  inch  each  way,  and  set  with  diamonds 
and  rubies.  Its  sanctity  required  more  than  the  usual  number  of  pros- 
trations and  murmured  incantations.  Carefully  the  superior  opened  it, 
and  disclosed  to  view  a  tooth,  yellow  with  age,  which,  assuredly,  never 
grew  in  any  human  mouth.  Each  of  the  party  admired  the  molar  in 
turn,  but  even  the  high  priest  took  care  not  to  touch  it.  The  fitting 
together  of  the  box  of  boxes  required  as  much  mummery  as  its  disin- 
tegration. 

The  ceremony  was  ended  at  last,  the  tabernacle  locked,  and  we 
passed  on  to  inspect  other  places  of  interest.  Among  them  was  the 
temple  library,  famous  throughout  the  island.  It  contained  four 
books.  Two  of  these  —  and  they  were  thumb-worn  —  were  in  Eng- 
lis^h, —  recent  works  of  Theosophists.  For  the  priests  of  Buddha,  far 
from  being  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  creatures  of  Western  fancy, 
are  often  liberal-minded  students  of  every  phase  of  the  world's  re- 
ligions. Printed  volumes,  however,  did  not  constitute  the  real  library. 
On  the  shelves  around  the  walls  were  thousands  of  metal  tablets,  two 
feet  long,  a  fourth  as  wide,  and  an  inch  thick,  covered  on  both  sides 


Central  Ceylon.     Making  roof-tiles.     The  sun  is  the  only  kiln 


The  priests  of  the  "Temple  of  the  Toojh"  in  Kandy,  who  were  my 
guides  during  my  stay  in  the  city 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  269 

with  the  hieroglyphics  of  Ceylon.  When  I  had  handled  several  of 
these,  and  heard  a  priest  read  one  in  a  mournful,  sing-song  chant,  like 
the  falling  of  water  at  a  distance,  I  acknowledged  myself  content 
and  turned  with  my  guides  toward  the  door. 

The  high  priest  followed  us  into  the  outer  temple.  During  all  the 
evening  he  had  addressed  me  only  through  an  interpreter.  As  I 
paused  to  pick  up  my  slippers,  however,  he  salaamed  gravely  and  spoke 
once  more,  this  time,  to  my  utter  amazement,  in  faultless  English. 

"  White  men,"  ran  his  speech,  "  often  join  the  true  religion.  There 
are  many  who  are  priests  of  Buddha  in  Burma,  and  some  in  Ceylon. 
They  are  much  honored." 

"  You  see,"  explained  the  son  of  the  innkeeper,  as  we  wended  our 
way  through  the  silent  bazaars,  "  he  did  not  wish  that  you  should  at 
first  know  that  he  speaks  English.  He  has  done  you  great  honor  by 
asking  you  to  become  a  priest ;  for  so  he  meant.  But  often  come  white 
men  to  the  temple  and  mock  all  that  is  brought  to  see,  making,  many 
times,  very  cruel  jokes,  and  he  who  is  close  to  Buddha  waited  to  see. 
You  have  not  done  so.     Therefore  are  you  honored." 

We  mounted  to  the  second  story  of  the  inn  and,  stripped  naked,  lay 
down  on  our  charpoys  —  native  beds  consisting  of  a  strip  of  canvas 
stretched  on  a  frame.  But  it  was  long  before  I  fell  asleep ;  for  the 
youth,  seeing  it  his  clear  duty,  harangued  me  long  and  ungrammatically 
from  the  neighboring  darkness  on  the  virtues  of  the  "  true  religion." 

Somehow  the  impression  gained  ground  rapidly  among  the  residents 
of  Kandy  that  the  white  man  who  had  attended  the  Sunday  evening 
service  contemplated  joining  the  yellow-robed  ascetics  at  the  Temple  of 
the  Tooth.  Just  where  the  rumor  had  its  birth  I  know  not.  Belike 
the  mere  fact  that  I  had  turned  none  of  the  rites  to  jest  had  won  me 
favor.  Or  was  it  that  my  garb  marked  me  as  one  more  likely  to  attain 
Nirvana  than  the  bestarched  Europeans  whose  levity  so  grieved  him 
who  was  "  close  to  Buddha  "  ? 

At  any  rate,  the  rumor  grew  like  the  cornstalk  in  Kansas.  With 
the  morning  sun  came  pious  shopkeepers  to  fawn  upon  me.  Before 
I  had  breakfasted,  two  temple  priests,  their  newly-shaven  heads  and 
faces  shining  under  their  brightly-colored  parasols  Hke  polished  brass, 
called  at  the  inn  and  invited  me  to  a  stroll  through  the  market  place. 
Never  an  excursion  did  I  make  in  Kandy  or  its  environs  without  at 
least  a  pair  of  saffron-garbed  companions.  That  I  should  find  a  ready 
welcome  in  the  temple  a  hundred  natives  assured  me,  the  priests  by 
veiled  hints,  the  laymen  more  openly.     They  were  moved,  perhaps,  by 


270      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

a  no  more  altruistic  motive  than  a  desire  to  have  on  exhibition  in  the 
local  monastery  a  v^hite  priest.  But  to  their  credit  be  it  said  that  no 
suggestion  of  a  material  inducement  crept  into  their  arguments. 

"  Buddhism,"  ran  their  plea,  "  is  the  true  religion.  The  mere  fact 
that  it  has  many  more  followers  than  any  other  religion  proves  that, 
does  it  not  ?  And  the  doctrine  of  the  Enlightened  One  embraces  every 
anomaly  of  humanity  —  even  white  men.  Only  those  who  accept  it 
can  hope  for  future  happiness.  Even  if  you  are  not  yet  convinced  of 
its  truth,  why  not  accept  it  now  and  run  no  risk  of  future  perdition  ?  " 

Surely,  the  most  conscientious  of  Christian  missionaries  never  at- 
tempted proselytism  less  underhandedly. 

My  escape  from  Kandy  savored  of  strategy,  but  I  reached  the  station 
unchallenged,  and,  exchanging  my  last  two  rupees  for  a  ticket  to  Co- 
lombo, established  myself  in  a  third-class  compartment.  It  was  al- 
ready occupied  by  a  native  couple  more  gifted  with  offspring  than  at- 
tire. Barely  had  I  settled  down  to  study  Singhalese  domestic  life  at 
close  range,  however,  when  a  mighty  uproar  burst  out  near  at  hand. 
A  half-breed  in  the  uniform  of  a  guard  raced  across  the  platform,  and, 
thrusting  his  head  into  the  compartment,  poured  forth  on  my  appar- 
ently unoffending  companions  a  torrent  of  incomprehensible  words. 
Had  he  denounced  me  as  a  victim  of  the  plague?  Plainly  the  family 
was  greatly  frightened.  The  father  sprang  wildly  to  his  feet  and  at- 
tempted to  clutch  a  half-dozen  unwieldy  bundles  in  a  painfully  inade- 
quate number  of  hands.  The  wife,  no  less  terrified,  raked  together 
from  floor  and  benches  as  many  naked  urchins,  in  assorted  sizes,  but 
entangled,  in  her  haste,  the  legs  of  her  lord  and  master,  and  sent  him 
sprawling  among  his  howling  descendants.  With  a  sizzling  oath,  the 
trainman  snatched  open  the  door  and,  springing  inside,  tumbled  bag- 
gage, infants,  and  parents  unceremoniously  out  upon  the  platform. 
Still  bellowing,  he  drove  the  trembling  wretches  to  another  compart- 
ment; a  party  of  well-dressed  natives  took  possession  of  the  recently 
vacated  benches ;  and  we  were  off. 

That  self-congratulatory  attitude  common  to  traveling  salesmen  the 
world  over  betrayed  the  caste  of  my  new  companions.  All  of  them 
spoke  English,  and,  eager  to  air  their  accomplishments,  lost  no  time  in 
engaging  me  in  conversation.  Marvelous  was  the  information  and 
the  variations  of  my  mother  tongue  that  assailed  me  from  all  sides. 
It  is  with  difficulty  that  one  refrains  from  "  stuffing ''  these  vainglori- 
ous, yet  childish  fellows  and  it  was  evident  that  some  other  European 


THE  REALMS  OF  GAUTAMA  271 

had  already  yielded  to  the  temptation.     But  my  astonishment  at  the 
treatment  of  the  exiled  family  had  by  no  means  subsided. 

''  Will  some  of  you  chaps  tell  me,"  I  interrupted,  "  why  the  guard 
ordered  those  other  natives  out  of  here,  and  then  let  you  in?" 

The  drummers  glared  at  me  a  moment  in  silence,  looked  at  each 
ler,  and  turned  to  stare  out  of  the  windows.  Most  grossly,  evi- 
itly,  had  I  insulted  them.  But  even  an  insult  cannot  keep  an 
Iriental  long  silent.  The  travelers  fidgeted  in  their  seats,  nudged  each 
ther,  and  focused  their  stare  once  more  upon  me. 

Know  you,  sir,"  said  the  most  portly  of  the  group,  with  severe 
mntenance,  "  know  you  that  those  were  base  coolies,  who  are  not 
lowed  to  ride  in  the  same  compartment  with  white  gentlemen.  We," 
id  the  brass  buttons  of  his  embroidered  jacket  struggled  to  perform 
heir  office,  "  are  high-caste  Singhalese,  sir.  Therefore  may  we  ride 
rith  sahibs." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SAWDUST   AND   TINSEL   IN    THE   ORIENT 

THE  train  rumbled  into  Colombo  in  the  late  afternoon.  I  made 
my  way  at  once  through  the  pattering  throng  to  Almeida's. 
In  the  roofless  dining-room  sat  Askins,  puffing  furiously  at 
his  clay  pipe  and  scribbling  with  a  sputtering  pen  in  one  of  several 
half-penny  notebooks  scattered  on  the  table  before  him.  At  the 
further  end  lolled  the  Swede  and  two  fellow-beachcombers,  staring 
at  the  writer  as  at  the  performer  of  some  mighty  miracle. 

**  Doing?  "  grinned  the  Irishman,  in  answer  to  my  question.  "  Oh! 
Just  another  of  my  tales.  You  know  you  can't  knock  around  British- 
India  for  twenty  years  without  picking  up  a  few  things.  About  the 
time  Ole  took  his  first  bath  I  began  jotting  down  some  of  the  mix-ups 
I  've  wandered  into.  That  lot  went  to  amuse  Davy  Jones  when  a 
tub  I  was  playing  second  engineer  on  threw  up  the  sponge  in  the  Bay 
of  Bengal.  Later  on  I  knocked  the  best  of  the  yarns  together  again, 
and  I  tear  off  another  now  and  then  when  life  gets  dull. 

"  Published  ?  Oh,  I  may  shove  them  off  one  of  these  days  on 
some  penny  weekly.  But  if  I  don't,  the  coroner  can  have  them  for  his 
trouble  when  I  come  to  furl  my  mainsheet.  He  won't  find  anything 
else." 

"  Vonderful !  "  cried  Ole,  with  a  Dr.  Watson  accent,  "  I  haf  study  in 
der  school  an'  I  rhead  sometimes  a  story  in  der  dog-vatch;  min  der 
man  vitch  can  make  der  stories !     Vonderful,  by  Gott !  " 

"  By  the  way,  Franck,"  said  Askins,  gathering  the  notebooks  to- 
gether, "  how  about  the  yellow-birds  who  tried  to  shave  your  sky- 
piece  over  in  Kandy  ?  " 

"  Why,  who  has  been  telling  you  —  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Have  n't  heard  a  word,"  replied  the  Irishman ;  "  but  I  knew  they  'd 
flag  you.     How  did  it  turn  out  ?  " 

I  related  my  experiences  with  the  temple  priests. 

"  It 's  an  old  game  out  here,"  mused  Askins.  "  In  the  good  old  days, 
whenever  one  of  the  boys  went  broke,  it  was  get  converted.  Not  all 
played  out  yet  either.     There  's  a  bunch  of  one-time  beachcombers 

272 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  273 

scattered  among  the  Burmese  monasteries.  An  old  pal  of  mine  wears 
the  yellow  up  in  Nepal.  No  graft  about  him,  though.  He  's  a  firm 
believer. 

"  Now  and  then  a  down-and-outer,  especially  over  Bombay  side, 
turns  Mohammedan.  But  most  of  'em  don't  take  to  the  surgical 
operation,  and  the  cross-legged  one  remains  the  favorite.  Of  course, 
there  's  always  the  missionaries,  too,  but  there  's  not  much  in  it  for 
a  white  man  to  turn  Christian.  There  was  good  money  in  the 
Mohammedan  game  before  it  was  worked  out.  There  's  a  little  yet. 
Of  course,  you  know  you  won't  get  a  red  by  tying  up  with  the  rice- 
bowlers,  but  it 's  a  job  for  life  —  if  you  behave." 

"  Huh !  Yank,"  roared  the  Swede,  peering  at  me  through  the  smoke, 
"you  get  burn  some,  eh,  playin'  mit  der  monkeys  in  der  jungle? 
Pretty  soon  you  ban  sunstroke.     Here,  I  make  you  trade." 

He  pointed  to  the  tropical  helmet  on  the  table  before  him. 

"  You  're  on,"  I  responded. 

"  He  ban  good  hat,"  said  Ole,  proudly ;  "  I  get  him  last  week  from 
der  Swede  consul.     Min  he  too  damn  big.     What  you  give?  " 

For  answer  I  tossed  my  cap  across  the  table. 

"  Nah ! "  protested  the  Scandinavian,  "  I  sell  him  for  tventy  cents 
or  I  take  der  cap  an'  vun  coat." 

I  mounted  to  the  floor  above  and  returned  with  a  cotton  jacket  that 
I  had  left  in  the  keeping  of  Askins. 

"  How  's  this  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  He  ban  all  right,"  answered  Ole,  slipping  into  it ;  "  der  oder  vas 
all  broke  by  der  sleeves." 

I  donned  the  helmet  and  strolled  down  to  the  landing  jetty,  where 
"  the  boys  "  were  accustomed  to  gather  of  an  evening  to  enjoy  the  only 
cool  breeze  that  ever  invaded  Colombo.  Few  had  been  the  changes 
in  the  beachcomber  ranks  during  my  absence.  Amid  the  drowsy  yarn- 
ing there  sounded  often  a  familiar  refrain :  — "  The  circus  is  coming." 
No  one  knew  just  when;  but  then,  one  doesn't  worry  in  Ceylon.  If 
he  has  n't  rice,  he  eats  bananas.  If  he  can't  find  work,  it  is  a  joy 
merely  to  lie  in  the  shade  and  breathe. 

The  publicity  of  the  cricket  grounds  had  led  me  to  seek  other 
sleeping-quarters.  Opposite  the  shipping-office,  in  the  heart  of  the 
European  section,  lay  Gordon  Gardens,  a  park  replete  with  fountains, 
gay  flower  pots,  and  grateful  shade.  By  day  it  was  the  rendezvous 
of  the  elite  of  the  city,  white  and  black.  By  night  its  gates  were 
closed,  and  stern  placards  warned  trespassers  to  beware.  Small  hin- 
18 


274      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

drance  these,  however,  for  in  all  Colombo  I  had  no  better  friend 
than  Bobby,  who  patroled  the  flanking  street.  Under  the  trees  the 
night  dew  never  fell,  the  ocean  breeze  laughed  at  the  toil  of  the 
punkah-wallah,  the  fountains  gave  bath-room  privileges,  and  prowling 
natives  disturbed  me  no  more;  for  Bobby  was  owl-eyed.  This  new 
lodging  had  but  one  drawback.  I  must  be  up  and  away  with  the 
dawn;  for  within  pea-shooting  distance  of  my  chamber  towered  the 
White  House  of  Ceylon,  and  Governor  Blake  was  reputed  an  early 
riser  and  no  friend  of  beachcombers. 

One  by  one  there  drifted  ashore  in  Colombo  four  fellow-country- 
men, who,  following  my  example,  soon  won  for  Gordon  Gardens  the 
sub-title  "  American  Park  Hotel."  Model  youths,  perhaps,  would 
have  shunned  this  quartet,  for  each  plead  guilty  to  a  checkered  past. 
As  for  myself,  I  found  them  boon  companions. 

Henderson,  the  oldest,  was  a  deserter  from  the  Asiatic  squadron. 
Arnold,  middle-aged,  laden  with  the  spoils  —  in  drafts  —  of  a  political 
career  in  New  York,  awaited  in  Ceylon  the  conclusion  of  the  Japanese- 
Russian  war  before  hastening  to  Port  Arthur  to  open  an  American 
saloon. 

Down  at  the  point  of  the  breakwater,  where  we  were  wont  to 
gather  often  for  a  dip  in  the  brine,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Marten.  He  was  a  boy  of  twenty-five,  hailing  from  Tacoma,  Wash- 
ington. Arriving  in  the  Orient  some  years  before  with  a  record  as  a 
champion  swimmer,  he  had  spent  two  seasons  in  diving  for  pearls  on 
the  Coromandel  coast.  Not  one  of  the  native  striplings  who  sur- 
rounded each  arriving  steamer,  clamoring  for  pennies,  was  more 
nearly  amphibious  than  Marten.  It  was  much  more  to  watch  his  sub- 
marine feats  than  to  swim  that  the  beachcombers  sallied  forth  each 
afternoon  from  their  shady  retreats. 

We  swam  cautiously,  the  rest  of  us,  for  the  harbor  was  infested 
with  sharks.  On  the  day  after  my  arrival,  the  Worcestershire  had 
buried  in  the  European  cemetery  of  Colombo  the  upper  half  of  what 
had  been  one  of  my  companions  in  the  "  glory-hole."  The  appear- 
ance of  a  pair  of  black  fins  out  across  the  sun-flecked  waters  was 
certain  to  send  us  scrambling  up  the  rough  face  of  the  break- 
water. 

But  not  so  Marten.  While  we  fled,  he  swam  straight  for  the  com- 
ing monsters  of  the  deep.  When  they  were  almost  upon  him  he 
dived  with  a  shout  of  hilarity  and  a  dash  of  foam  into  their  very 


•    ».»   o    ,  ...    ".     »     ,»    • 


The  rickshaw  men  of  Colombo 


American  wanderers  who  slept  in  the  Gordon  Gardens  of  Colombo.     Left  to 
right:  Arnold,  ex-New  York  ward  heeler; -myself;  "Dick  Haywood"; 
an  English  lad;  and  Marten  of  Tacoma,  Washington 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  275 

midst,  to  come  to  the  surface  smiling  and  unscathed,  perhaps  far  out 
across  the  harbor,  perhaps  under  our  dangHng  feet.  How  he  put  the 
sharks  to  flight  no  man  knew.  The  "gang"  was  divided  in  its 
opinion  between  the  assertion  of  the  swimmer  himself  that  he  "  tickled 
'em  under  the  belly,"  and  the  conviction  of  Askins  that  he  had  merely 
to  show  them  his  face  —  for  Marten  was  not  afflicted  with  manly 
beauty. 

The  last  member  of  our  party  was  a  bully  born  on  the  Bowery, 
younger  in  years  than  Marten,  older  in  rascality  than  Henderson.  As 
to  his  name,  he  owned  to  several,  and  assured  us  at  the  first  meeting 
that  "  Dick  Haywood  "  would  do  well  enough  for  the  time  being.  His 
chief  claim  to  fame  was  his  own  assertion  that  he  had  escaped  from 
Sing  Sing  after  serving  two  years  of  a  seven-year  sentence.  The 
story  of  his  **  get-away,"  with  which  he  often  entertained  twilight 
gatherings  on  the  jetty,  smacked  of  veracity.  For  all  an  innate 
skepticism,  I  found  no  reason  to  disagree  with  the  conclusion  of  the 
"  gang  "  that  his  "  song  and  dance  "  was  true.  Certainly  there  was  no 
doubt  among  his  most  casual  acquaintances  of  his  ability  to  get  into 
Sing  Sing.  He  was  clever  enough,  fortune  favoring,  to  have  broken 
out. 

Fleeing  his  native  land,  Haywood  had  brought  up  in  Bombay  and, 
having  enlisted  in  the  British  army,  was  assigned  to  a  garrison  in 
Rajputana.  Obviously,  so  temperamental  a  youth  must  soon  weary  of 
the  guard  duty  and  pipe-clay  polishing  that  make  up  the  long,  long 
Indian  day  of  Tommy  Atkins.  He  engineered  a  second  "  get-away." 
The  enlistment  papers  and  a  buttonless  uniform  in  his  bundle  certi- 
fied to  this  adventure.  In  the  course  of  time  he  reached  Calcutta, 
chiefly  through  the  fortune  of  finding  himself  alone  in  a  compartment 
of  the  Northwest  Mail  with  a  Parsee  merchant  of  more  worldly  wealth 
than  physical  prowess.  A  rumor  of  this  escapade  soon  drove  him  to 
Madras.  There  his  unconventional  habits  again  asserted  themselves 
and  fortune  temporarily  deserted  him.  He  was  taken  in  the  bazaars 
in  the  act  of  "  weeding  the  leathers." 

Once  more  he  escaped,  this  time  from  a  crowded  court  room,  and 
finding  India  no  longer  attractive,  turned  southward  to  Ceylon,  hoping 
to  make  a  final  "  get-away  "  by  sea. 

Few  of  "  the  boys  "  gave  credence  to  these  last  tales.  But  they 
were  true.  For  a  newcomer  in  the  ranks  reported  on  the  day  of  his 
arrival,  before  he  had  laid  eyes  on  the  culprit,  that  Madras  was 


276      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

placarded  with  descriptions  —  they  fitted  Haywood  exactly  —  of  a 
man  charged  with  desertion,  robbery,  pick-pocketing,  and  escape  from 
custody. 

Awaking  penniless  on  the  morning  following  my  return  from 
Kandy,  I  decided  to  investigate  a  charity  system  in  vogue  in  British- 
India.  Kind-hearted  sahibs,  members  of  a  national  association  known 
as  the  "  Friend-in-Need  Society,"  maintain  in  the  larger  cities  a  refuge 
for  stranded  Europeans  and  Eurasians.  Above  the  door  of  each 
Society  building  appear  the  initial  letters  of  its  title.  The  inventive 
wanderer,  for  other  reasons  than  this,  perhaps,  has  dubbed  the  kindly 
institution  the  "  Finish." 

In  Colombo  the  Society  offered  only  otlt-door  relief,  meal  tickets 
distributed  by  its  president  or  secretary.  I  found  the  first  of  these 
officials  to  be  the  youthful  editor  of  Colombo's  English  newspaper, 
with  offices  a  ship's  length  from  Gordon  Gardens.  Tickets,  however, 
had  he  none. 

"  This  office  was  too  blooming  handy,"  he  explained,  throwing 
aside  his  blue  pencil  to  mop  his  brow.  "If  the  hooligans  loafing  in  the 
Gardens  or  on  the  jetty  had  an  idle  hour  on  their  hands,  they  spent  it 
inventing  tales  and  strolled  up  here  to  see  how  much  they  could  get 
out  of  the  Society  by  springing  them  on  me.  There  was  more  than 
one  of  them,  too,  that  I  'd  have  taken  on  the  staff  if  he  could  have 
dished  up  as  good  a  yarn  every  week.  But  the  thing  got  to  be  a  fad, 
and,  when  I  found  that  a  couple  of  fellows  that  applied  to  me  had 
their  pockets  full  of  dibs  at  the  time,  I  decided  to  let  the  secretary,  the 
Baptist  minister,  do  the  distributing.  His  parsonage  is  four  miles 
from  the  harbor,  and  the  man  that  will  walk  that  far  in  Ceylon  de- 
serves all  he  can  get  out  of  him." 

Far  out  beyond  the  leper  hospital,  where  putrescent  mortals  peered 
dejectedly  through  the  palings,  I  came  upon  the  bungalow  of  the 
Reverend  Peacock,  set  well  back  from  the  red  highway  in,  a  grove  of 
palms.  Several  old  acquaintances,  including  Askins,  had  assembled. 
One  of  them  stood  abjectly,  hat  in  hand,  before  the  judgment-seat  at 
the  end  of  the  veranda. 

The  secretary  was  a  man  of  pugilistic  build,  with  the  voice  of  a  side- 
show barker.  His  very  roar  seemed  an  assertion  that  he  was  an  in- 
fallible judge  of  human  nature.  Yet,  strangely  enough,  he  treated 
most  liberally  the  professional  vagrants,  and  turned  away  empty- 
handed  those  whose   stories  were  told   stammeringly   for  want  of 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  2^7 

practice.  Among  those  who  appeared  before  him  that  morning,  for 
example,  were  two  grafters,  Askins  and  myself;  and  an  Italian  sailor, 
really  deserving  of  assistance. 

The  Irishman  chose  to  state  his  case  in  the  language  of  university 
circles. 

"  Surely,"  cried  the  reverend  gentleman,  in  delight,  ''  this  must  be 
the  first  time  a  man  of  your  parts  has  found  himself  in  this  pre- 
dicament ?  " 

"  Verily,  yes,  Reverend  Peacock,"  quoth  the  learned  son  of  Erin, 
with  an  unrestrainable  sigh,  "  the  first  indeed.  As  I  can't  count  the 
other  times,  they  don't  count,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "  It 's  the 
asthma,  reverend  sir." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  make  yours  a  special  case,"  said  the  secretary ; 
"  Step  aside  into  my  study." 

I  advanced  to  tell  my  tale  and  received  eight  tickets,  twice  the 
usual  number.  A  moment  later  the  Italian  was  driven  from  the  par- 
sonage grounds  with  the  nearest  approach  to  an  oath  that  a  minister  is 
entitled  to  include  in  his  vocabulary. 

The  tickets,  worth  four  cents  each,  entitled  the  holder  to  as  many 
meals  of  currie  and  rice,  tea,  bananas,  and  cakes  in  a  native  shop 
chosen  by  the  Society ;  it  was  the  poorest  in  town.  A  faulty  manage- 
ment was  suggested,  too,  by  the  fact  that  the  proprietor  was  easily 
induced  to  make  good  the  Society  vouchers  in  a  neighboring  arrack- 
shop. 

Three  day  later,  as  dawn  was  breaking,  I  climbed  the  fence  of  the 
■  American  Park  Hotel  "  and  strolled  away  to  the  beach  for  a  dip  in 
the  surf.  Breakfast  would  have  been  more  to  the  point,  but  my  last 
ticket  was  spent.  One  by  one,  "  the  boys,"  little  suspecting  that  this 
was  to  prove  the  red-letter  day  of  that  Colombo  season,  turned  back 
into  the  squat  city;  and  as  the  sun  mounted  higher  I  retreated  to  the 
freight  wharves,  where  the  vague  promise  of  a  job  had  been  held  out 
to  me  the  day  before. 

The  dock  superintendent  was  slow  in  coming.  At  ten  o'clock  I 
was  still  stretched  out  in  the  shade  of  his  veranda,  when  I  was  sud- 
denly aroused  by  a  shout  from  the  shore  end  of  the  pier.  I  sprang  up 
to  see  the  Swede  struggling  to  keep  a  footing  in  the  maelstrom  of  bul- 
lock carts,  coolie  carriers,  and  shrieking  stevedores,  and  waving  his 
arms  wildly  above  his  head. 

*'  Circus ! "    he    cried,    "  Der    circus    is    coom,    Franck !     Creeket 


278      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ground !  "  and,  turning  about,  he  dashed  off  at  a  pace  that  is  rarely- 
equaled  in  Ceylon  by  white  men  who  look  forward  to  a  long  and  active 
life. 

I  dived  into  the  throng  and  fought  my  way  to  the  gate.  The 
Scandinavian  was  already  far  down  the  red  driveway  leading  to  the 
native  section.  Among  such  a  company  of  out-of-works  as  graced 
Colombo  at  that  season,  there  was  small  chance  of  employment  to 
those  who  lingered.  I  dashed  after  the  flying  Norseman  and  over- 
took him  at  the  entrance  to  the  public  playground. 

A  circus  at  the  hour  of  its  arrival  presents  a  chaotic  scene  under 
the  best  of  circumstances.  When  it  has  just  disembarked  from  a  sea 
voyage,  in  a  land  swarming  with  half-civilized  brown  men,  its  disorder 
is  oppressive.  The  center  of  the  cricket  field  was  a  wild  confusion  of 
animal  cages,  rolls  of  canvas,  scattered  tent  poles,  and  all  else  that 
goes  to  make  up  a  traveling  menagerie,  not  forgetting  those  pompous 
persons  whose  hectic  garb  make  them  as  effective  advertising  mediums 
as  walking  billboards. 

At  the  moment,  these  romantic  beings  were  doing  garrison  duty ;  for 
the  recumbent  circus  was  in  a  state  of  siege.  Around  it  surged  an 
ever-increasing  multitude  of  natives,  peering,  pushing,  chattering,  fall- 
ing back  terror-stricken  before  the  frenzied  circus  men  who,  armed 
with  iron-headed  tent  stakes,  charged  back  and  forth  across  the  space ; 
but  sweeping  out  upon  the  scattered  paraphernalia  again  after  each 
onslaught. 

We  battled  our  way  into  the  inner  circle  and  shouted  an  offer  of  our 
services  to  the  blaspheming  manager.  He  was  a  typical  circus  boss ; 
Irish,  of  course,  bullet-headed,  of  powerful  build,  and  free  of  move- 
ment, with  a  belligerent  cast  of  countenance  that  proclaimed  his 
readiness  to  engage  in  a  "  scrap  "  at  any  time  that  he  could  find  leisure 
for  such  entertainment.  Tugging  at  a  heap  of  canvas,  he  peered  at  us 
between  his  out-stretched  legs,  and  shouted  above  the  din  of  battle :  — 

"Yis,  I  want  four  min!  White  wans!  Are  you  fellows  sailors? 
There  's  a  hill  of  a  lot  o'  climbin'  to  do." 

"  Both  A.  Bs.,"  I  answered. 

"  All  right !    If  ye  want  the  job,  bring  two  more." 

We  turned  to  scrutinize  the  sea  of  humanity  about  us.  There  was 
not  a  white  face  to  be  seen. 

"  Ve  look  by  Almeida's !  "  shouted  the  Swede,  as  we  charged  the  mob. 

Before  we  could  escape,  however,  I  caught  sight  of  a  famiHar 
slouch  hat  well  back  in  the  crowd,  and  a  moment  later  Askins  stood  be- 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  279 

side  us.     Behind  him  came  Dick  Haywood  and,  our  squad  complete, 
we  dashed  back  to  the  boss. 

*'  Well !  "  he  roared,  "  I  pay  a  quid  a  week  an'  find  yerselves  I  Want 
it?" 

"  A  pound  a  week,"  muttered  Askins,  "  that 's  more'n  two  chips  a 
day.     Aye !     We  '11  take  it." 

"  All  right !  Jump  onto  that  center  pole  an'  get  'er  up.  If  these 
niggers  get  in  the  way,  brain  'em  with  a  tent  stake.  Stip  lively 
now !  " 

The  upper  canvas  was  soon  spread  and  a  space  roped  off.  The  boss 
tossed  a  pick-ax  at  me  and  set  me  to  grubbing  holes  for  the  seat  sup- 
ports. Carefully  and  evenly  I  swung  the  tool  up  and  down  in  an  old 
maid's  stroke.  The  least  slip  would  have  broken  a  Singhalese  head, 
so  closely  did  the  natives  press  around  me.  To  them  the  sight  of  a 
white  man  employed  at  manual  labor  was  the  source  of  as  much 
astonishment  as  any  of  the  wonders  of  the  circus.  Few,  indeed,  had 
ever  before  seen  a  European  manipulating  heavier  tools  than  pen  or 
pencil.  Within  an  hour  the  news  had  spread  abroad  through  the  city 
that  the  circus  had  imported  the  novelty  of  the  age,  some  "  white 
coolies ;  "  and  all  Colombo  and  his  wife  omitted  the  afternoon  siesta 
and  trooped  to  the  cricket  ground  to  behold  this  reversal  of  society. 

The  mob  that  I  drove  from  hole  to  hole  increased  rapidly.  My  mates, 
carrying  seat  boards  or  sawdust  for  the  ring,  were  as  seriously  handi- 
capped. Haywood  of  the  untamed  temper,  taking  the  caustic  advice 
of  the  boss  too  literally,  snatched  up  a  tent  stake  and  stretched  two 
natives  bleeding  on  the  ground.     Even  that  brought  small  relief. 

Strange  comments  sounded  in  my  ears;  for  the  native  who  speaks 
English  never  loses  an  opportunity  to  display  his  learning.  A  pair  at 
my  elbow  opened  fire  in  the  diction  of  schoolbooks:  — 

"  This  sight  is  to  me  astounding ! "  shrieked  the  high-caste  youth  to 
his  older  companion ;  "  I  have  never  before  know  that  Europeans  can 
do  such  workings." 

"Why,  indeed,  yes!  "  cried  the  babu.  "  In  his  home  the  sahib  does 
just  so  strong  work  as  our  coolies,  but  because  he  is  play  cricket  and 
tennis  he  is  doing  even  stronger.  He  is  not  rich  always  and  sitting  in 
shade." 

"  But  do  the  white  man  not  losing  his  caste  when  he  is  working  like 
coolies?  "  demanded  the  youth.  "  Why  is  this  man  work  at  such?  Is 
he  perhaps  prisoner  that  he  disgraces  himself  lower  than  the  keeper  of 
the  arrack-shop  ?  " 


28o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Truly,  my  friend,  I  not  understand,"  admitted  the  older  man,  a 
bit  sadly,  *'but  I  am  reading  that  in  sahib's  country  he  is  make  the 
workings  of  coolie  and  yet  is  not  coolie." 

There  were  others  besides  the  native  residents  whose  attention  was 
attracted  to  the  "  white  coolies."  Here  and  there  in  the  crowd  I 
caught  sight  of  a  European  scowling  darkly  at  us ;  just  why,  I  could 
not  guess,  unconscious  of  having  done  anything  to  provoke  the  ill-will 
of  my  race.  In  due  time,  however,  I  learned  the  cause  of  their  dis- 
pleasure. 

When  night  fell,  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  initial  performance ; 
though  at  the  cost  of  a  day's  work  that  we  agreed  could  not  be  indulged 
in  more  than  semi-annually,  even  for  an  inducement  of  "  more  than 
two  chips."  The  tents,  large  and  small,  were  stretched,  the  circle  of 
seats  complete.  Rings,  flying  apparatus,  properties,  and  lights  were 
ready  for  use.  A  half-thousand  chairs,  reserved  for  Europeans,  had 
been  ranged  at  the  ring  side,  the  cage  of  the  performing  lion  bolted  to- 
gether, and  the  ticket  booth  set  up  at  the  entrance.  The  boss  gave 
vent  to  a  final  snarl,  called  a  'rickshaw,  and  drove  off  to  his  hotel  for 
dinner.  Luckily,  Askin's  credit  was  good  in  the  favorite  shop  across 
the  way.  We  ate  our  currie  and  rice  quickly,  and  returned  to  stretch 
out  on  the  grass  at  the  players'  entrance. 

Our  pipes  were  barely  Hghted  when  two  Europeans,  dressed  in  snow- 
white  garments,  stepped  forward  out  of  the  darkness.  We  recognized 
in  them  two  Englishmen  connected  with  the  Lipton  Tea  Company. 

"  It  strikes  me,  me  men,"  began  one,  in  a  high,  querulous  voice, 
"  that  you  chaps  should  know  better  than  to  do  coolie  labor  in  sight 
of  all  the  natives  of  the  city." 

"  What 's  that  ? "  I  cried,  in  my  surprise,  though  I  heard  Askins 
chuckling  behind  me. 

"  I  suppose  you  chaps  have  only  come  to  Ceylon,"  suggested  the 
other,  in  a  more  conciliatory  tone.  "  You  probably  don't  realize  what  a 
different  world  this  is  out  here.  You  cawn't  work  at  manual  labor 
here,  you  know,  the  way  you  can  in  Hyde  Park.  Why,  you  will  de- 
stroy the  prestige  of  every  white  man  on  the  island,  if — " 

"  You  've  stirred  up  a  fine  kettle  of  fish  already,"  burst  out  the  first 
speaker.  "  But  Arthur,  these  chaps  are  not  bank  clerks.  They  cawn't 
understand  the  sowt  of  language  you  talk  to  your  stenographer,  you 
knoaw.     They  are  only  sailors.     Let  me  tell  them  the  trouble. 

"  Now  look  heah,  me  men.  This  awfternoon  my  Hindu  servant 
stuck  his  head  in  at  my  office  door,  and  shouted  right  out  for  me  to  go 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  281 

to  the  cricket  ground  and  see  the  sahib  coolies.  By  four  o'clock  he 
was  talking  back  every  time  I  called  him  to  do  an  errand.  To-night, 
blawst  me,  he  was  so  slow  in  filling  my  pipe  that  I  had  to  chuck  a  boot 
at  him.  By  to-morrow  morning  I  suppose  he  '11  tell  me  to  prepare  me 
own  bawth,  bah  Jove.  This  sort  of  thing,  ye  knoaw,  is  giving  the  na- 
tives the  notion  that  they  're  as  good  as  Englishmen." 

"  Think  you  '11  find,"  said  Askins,  puffing  slowly  at  his  broken  pipe, 
**  if  you  reflect  a  bit,  that  this  unwonted  arrogance  in  the  aborigines  and 
the  noticeable  decrease  in  their  respect  for  Europeans,  which  you  at- 
tribute entirely  to  our  alleged  indiscretion,  are  very  largely  due  to  the 
recent  victories  of  Japan  over  Russia." 

The  Swede  snorted  like  a  stalled  winch.  The  boot-chucker  peered 
through  the  darkness  at  the  rags  that  covered  Askins,  M.  A.  Even 
"  Arthur  "  could  not  suppress  a  chuckle  at  his  companion's  notion  of 
a  mere  sailor's  vocabulary.  Before  the  other  had  recovered,  he  took 
up  the  broken  thread  of  the  sermon. 

"  Reginald  is  right,  me  men,  all  the  same.  Ye  knoaw  of  all  the 
castes  out  here  only  the  very  lowest  work  with  their  hands,  and  they 
are  despised  by  every  other  class.  Why,  the  lowest  caste  in  Ceylon, 
ye  knoaw,  won't  undertake  our  meanest  labor.  We  have  to  send  over 
for  Tamil  and  Hindu  coolies.  Now  the  Englishmen  are  at  the  top  of 
this  caste  system.  The  natives  look  up  to  us  as  above  their  highest 
caste.  If  this  highest  class,  then,  does  labor  that  would  degrade  those 
of  their  lowest  caste,  you  can  see  where  their  reverence  for  white  men 
would  soon  go. 

"  Chaps  have  come  out  here  at  different  times,  missionaries  es- 
pecially, determined  to  treat  the  natives  like  equals,  saying  it  was  all 
rot  and  wrong  to  keep  up  this  caste  system.  And  they  chatted  with 
their  servants,  and  patted  the  babies  on  the  back,  and  sat  at  the  same 
table  with  natives,  and  even  planted  their  own  gardens.  And  those 
who  have  n't  got  knives  in  their  ribs  for  hoodooing  the  children  are 
looked  upon  as  insane  or  degenerate,  or  as  men  being  punished  for 
some  crime.  Why,  if  these  people  ceased  to  look  upon  us  as  their  social 
superiors  they  'd  drive  us  into  the  sea  in  a  month.  If  you  chaps  want 
to  stop  long  in  Colombo  you  'd  better  drop  this  circus  job." 

"  But  if  that 's  all  the  work  we  can  find  on  the  whole  blooming  is- 
land ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Work !  "  cried  Reginald,  excitedly,  "  Why,  blawst  it !  Don't  work! 
Better  loaf  than  make  us  all  lose  caste  with  the  natives." 

"  But  if  the  wily  chip  continues  to  elude  us  ?  "  drawled  Askins. 


282      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Eh !  "  gasped  Reggie. 

"  I  mean  if  the  currie  and  rice  refuse  to  come  at  our  whistle?  " 
**  Oah !     Yeou  mean  if  you  have  no  money  to  buy  food  ?  " 
'*  You  've  hit  it,"  replied  the  Dublin  sage ;  "  that 's  the  very  idea." 
"  Why,  blawst  it,  me  man,"   shrieked  Reggie,   "  don't  you   know- 
there  's  a  Friend-in-Need  Society  in  Colombo  ?     What  do  you  fawncy 
we  contribute  to  it  for?     Now  if  you  chaps  don't  stop  disgracing  all 
the—" 

"  What 's  the  bloody  row  ?  "  growled  a  voice  in  the  darkness. 
Our  employer  loomed  up  out  of  the  night. 

"  Oh !  That  '11  be  all  right,"  he  asserted,  in  a  soothing  voice,  when 
the  controversy  had  been  explained  to  him ;  "  The  tints  is  all  up. 
T'night  I  '11  give  these  byes  their  uniforems,  an'  whinever  the  show  is 
goin'  on  an'  the  niggers  can  see  thim,  they  '11  wear  thim." 

"  Uniforms !  "  cried  the  Englishmen.  "  That 's  different,  ye  knoaw." 
"  Of  course,"  continued  Reggie,  lighting  a  cigarette,  "  it  will  be  all 
right  with  uniforms.  When  a  man  weahs  a  uniform,  the  natives  think 
he  is  doing  something  they  cawn't  do,  ye  knoaw,  and  he  keeps  his 
cawste.  Oah,  yes,  that  '11  do  very  nicely,  Mr.  Manager.  We  '11  be 
off,  then,"  and  the  pair  tripped  away  into  the  night. 

"  Fitzgerald's  Circus  "  was  an  Australian  enterprise.  Its  personnel, 
from  Fritz  himself  to  the  trick  poodle,  hailed  from  the  little  continent. 
In  competition  with  the  circuses  of  our  own  land  this  one-ring  affair 
would  have  attracted  small  attention;  but  its  annual  circuit  of  Ori- 
ental cities,  from  Hong  Kong  to  Bombay,  was  on  virgin  soil  where  the 
most  stereotyped  "  act "  was  greeted  with  bursts  of  enthusiasm. 

To  us,  surfeited  and  sophisticated  beings  from  an  unmarveHng 
world,  the  sights  of  interest  were  in  the  amphitheater  of  benches  rather 
than  in  the  ring.  The  burners  lighted,  we  dashed  off  to  don  our  uni- 
forms. These  were  light  blue  in  color  and  richly  trimmed  with  gold 
braid  —  things  of  glory  above  which  even  the  bald  crown  of  Askins  and 
the  straw-tinted  thatch  of  the  Swede  inspired  a  deep  Singhalese  rever- 
ence. The  designers  of  the  garments,  however,  having  in  mind  dura- 
bility rather  than  the  comfort  of  scores  of  annual  wearers,  had  forced 
upon  us  a  costume  appropriate  to  the  upper  ranges  of  the  Himalayas. 
Our  first  uniformed  duties  were  those  of  ushers,  and  between  the 
appearance  of  the  frightened  vanguard  of  the  audience  and  the  first  fan- 
fare of  the  audacious  "  orchestra,"  life  moved  with  a  vim.  The  hordes 
that  swarmed  in  upon  us  before  the  barker  had  concluded  his  first  ap- 
peal comprised  every  caste  of  Singhalese  society.     Weighty  problems 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  283 

unknown  to  the  most  experienced  circus  man  of  the  western  world 
crowded  themselves  upon  us,  demanding  instantaneous  solution.  A 
delegation  of  priests  in  cheese-cloth  robes  raised  their  shrill  voices  in 
protest  because  the  space  allotted  them  gave  no  room  for  their  betel- 
nut  boxes.  Half-breeds  shouted  strenuous  objections  to  being  seated 
with  natives.  Merchants  refused  to  enter  the  same  section  with  shop- 
keepers. Shopkeepers  were  chary  of  pollution  at  the  touch  of  scribes. 
Scribes  cried  out  hoarsely  at  contact  with  laborers.  Skilled  workmen 
screamed  in  frenzy  at  every  attempt  to  make  place  among  them  for 
mere  coolies. 

The  lower  the  caste  of  the  newcomer  the  more  prolonged  was  the 
uproar  against  him,  and  the  more  vindictive  his  own  disgust  at  his  in- 
feriors. The  Hindu  sudra,  in  his  scanty  loin-cloth,  was  abhorred  of 
all,  and  shrank  servilly  behind  the  usher  during  the  circuit  of  the  tent, 
while  each  section  in  turn  rose  against  him.  The  natives,  for  the  most 
part,  refused  to  sit  as  circus  seats  are  meant  to  be  sat  on,  but  squatted 
obstinately  on  their  heels,  hugging  their  scrawny  knees.  Wily  'rick- 
shaw runners  could  be  kept  from  crawling  in  among  the  chairs  only 
by  extreme  vigilance  and  occasional  violence.  Buxom  brown  women, 
caught  in  the  crush  of  humanity,  ran  imminent  peril  of  being  sepa- 
rated from  their  loosely-fastened  skirts,  and  through  it  all  native 
youths  from  the  mission-schools,  swarmed  round  us,  intent  on  display- 
ing their  "  English  "  by  asking  useless  and  unanswerable  questions. 

The  entrance  of  the  European  patrons,  staid  and  pompous  of  de- 
meanor, put  the  natives  on  their  best  behavior,  and,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  the  bicyclers  for  the  first  act,  even  the  Eurasian  forgot  that  the 
despised  sudra  sat  under  the  same  tent  with  him.  The  heterogeneous 
throng  settled  down  into  a  motionless  sea  of  strained,  astonished  faces. 
Fitzgerald  sahib  prided  himself  on  the  smooth  manner  in  which  his 
entertainment  was  run  off,  and  to  the  four  of  us  fell  the  task  of  sup- 
plying the  oil  to  his  circus  machinery.  The  "  Wonderful  Cycle  Whiz! 
Never  Before  Performed  by  Australians !  Never  1 "  once  over,  we  had 
one  minute  to  pull  down  the  bicycle  track  and  carry  the  heavily 
weighted  sections  outside  the  tent.  While  we  lowered  *'  Master  Wal- 
dron's  '*  trapeze  with  one  hand,  we  placed  and  held  the  hurdles  with 
the  other.  Tables  and  chairs  for  "  Hadgie  Tabor's  Hand-Balancing 
Act !  "  must  appear  as  if  by  magic.  In  breathless  succession  the  trick 
ponies  must  be  led  on,  the  ring  cleared  for  the  performing  elephant, 
set  again  for  the  "  Astounding  Jockey  Act,"  and  cleared  for  the  "  Hun- 
garian Horses." 


284      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Then  "  Mile.  Montgomery,"  forgetting  her  bunion,  capered  into  the 
glare  of  publicity  in  a  costume  that  made  even  the  tropically-clad  Sin- 
ghalese women  gasp  with  envy.  Most  valiantly  we  struggled  during 
her  *'  Daring  Equestrian  Act !  "  to  drop  the  streamers  low  on  her  horse's 
flanks,  and  to  strike  the  fair  equestrienne  squarely  on  the  head  with 
our  paper  hoops;  not  so  much  from  a  desire  to  charm  the  audience 
with  our  dexterity  as  to  escape  the  sizzling  comments  which  the  fairy- 
like "  mademoiselle  "  flung  back  in  snarling  sotto  voce  at  each  blun- 
derer. 

Away  with  hoops  and  ribbons !  Properties  for  the  clown  act !  On 
the  heels  of  the  fools  came  that  "  Mighty  Demonstration  of  Man's 
Power  over  FEROCIOUS  BEASTS!"  during  which  an  emaciated 
and  moth-eaten  tiger,  crouched  on  a  horse,  rode  twice  round  the  ring 
with  the  contrite  and  crestfallen  countenance  of  a  hen-pecked  suburb- 
anite who  has  returned  home  without  recalling  the  reason  for  the  knot 
in  his  handkerchief. 

Ten  minutes'  intermission,  that  was  no  intermission  for  us,  and  there 
came  more  properties,  hoops  and  rings  of  fire,  tables  and  chairs,  per- 
forming dogs  to  be  held  in  leash,  and  a  final  act  for  which  we  set  up 
the  elephant's  bicycle  and  drove  the  lion  out  for  a  spin  on  the  huge 
animal's  back.  Had  our  uniforms  been  as  airy  as  the  raiment  of  the 
Hindu  coolies  slinking  at  the  tail  of  the  howling  hordes  that  poured 
through  the  exit,  our  labyrinthian  paths  about  the  enclosure  could  easily 
have  been  traced  by  the  streams  of  sweat  left  behind  us.  Even  though 
our  tasks  were  by  no  means  ended  with  the  performance,  we  rarely 
waited  for  the  disappearance  of  the  last  stragglers  to  strip  as  far  as  un- 
exacting  Singhalese  propriety  would  permit. 

When  the  last  property  had  been  laid  away,  we  arranged  our  beds 
by  setting  together  several  chairs  chosen  from  the  general  havoc, 
and  turned  in.  Unless  we  were  disturbed  by  prowling  natives,  we  even 
slept;  though  rarely  all  at  once  and  never  for  an  extended  period. 

The  boss,  during  that  strenuous  first  day,  had  promised  us  ample 
leisure  when  once  the  tents  and  cages  were  set  up.  Unfortunately,  he 
forgot  his  promise.  Each  day  we  were  stirring  at  dawn,  and,  after 
a  banana  and  a  wafer  across  the  way,  we  fell  to  work.  The  benches, 
which  the  departing  multitude  had  scattered  pellmell  in  their  dash  for 
the  cooler  night  outside,  must  be  reset.  The  chairs  of  the  sahibs, 
strewn  about  the  ring  like  wreckage  washed  ashore,  must  be  rearranged 
in  symmetrical  rows  and  decorated  with  ribbons.  Cast-off  programs. 
banana  peelings,  betel-nut  leaves,  and  all  the  rubbish  of  a  band  of 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  285 

merry-makers  had  to  be  picked  up ;  the  tent  ropes  '*  sweated  "  to  keep 
them  taut ;  the  hon's  cage  minutely  inspected ;  the  ring  resprinkled  with 
sawdust  and,  a  job  abhorred,  freshly  whitewashed.  Between  these  reg- 
ular duties  came  a  hundred  and  one  chores  of  the  boss's  finding ;  and, 
whatever  the  task  in  hand,  it  must  be  interrupted  ever  and  anon  to 
throw  tent  stakes  at  the  awe-stricken  faces  that  peered  through  the 
openings  in  the  canvas.  Strange  fortune  if  we  were  finished  when  the 
cry  of  "  touch  off  the  lights  "  sent  us  shinnying  up  the  tent  poles  and 
ropes  in  Jack  Tar  fashion  to  kindle  the  gasoline  burners.  Not  even  the 
Reverend  Peacock  could  have  accused  us,  during  those  merry  days,  of 
living,  like  drones,  on  the  industry  of  others. 

Fitzgerald's  Circus  had  been  domiciled  nearly  a  week  in  Colombo, 
when  I  was  unexpectedly  advanced  from  the  position  of  a  "  swipe  " 
to  one  of  weighty  importance.  It  was  during  an  idle  hour  late  one 
afternoon.  The  four  of  us  were  displaying  our  accomplishments  in 
the  deserted  ring,  when  it  was  my  good  fortune,  or  bad,  according  to 
the  individual  point  of  view,  to  be  detected  by  the  ringmaster  and 
the  proprietor  in  the  act  of  "  doing  a  hand-stand."  Certain  so  com- 
monplace a  feat  in  itself  could  not  have  attracted  the  attention  the 
pair  bestowed  upon  me,  I  regained  my  accustomed  posture  fully  ex- 
pecting to  lose  my  cherished  "  quid  a  week  "  for  this  defilement  of  the 
sawdust  circle.  I  waited  contritely.  The  ringmaster  looked  me  over 
with  critical  dispassion  from  my  shorn  head  to  my  bare  feet,  turned  his 
perpetual  scowl  on  "  Fitz  "  for  a  moment,  and  addressed  me  in  the 
metallic  voice  of  a  phonograph :  — 

"  Know  any  other  stunts  ?  " 

Was  the  question  meant  seriously,  or  was  this  caustic  sarcasm  but  a 
forerunner  of  my  dismissal? 

"  One  or  two,"  I  admitted. 

"  Where  'd  ye  learn  'em  ?  "  snapped  the  ringmaster. 

I  pleaded  in  exoneration  a  few  years  of  gymnasium  membership. 

"  Gymnasium  on  shipboard  ?  "  asked  the  owner. 

"  Why,  no,  sir,  on  land." 

"  Could  you  do  a  dive  over  that  chair  into  the  ring,  a  head-stand,  a 
stiff- fall,  and  a  roll-up  ?  "  rasped  the  ringmaster. 

A  chuckle  and  a  snort  sounded  from  my  companions.  Losing  a  job 
was,  from  their  point  of  view,  neither  a  disgrace  nor  a  misfortune  — 
merely  a  joke. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  can  work  those,"  I  stammered. 

"You 're  a  sailor?" 


286      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  a  few  tumbles  won't  hurt  you  any.  Can  you  hold  a  man  of 
twelve  stone  on  your  shoulders  ?  " 

I  made  a  brief  mental  calculation ;  twelve  times  fourteen  —  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty-eight  pounds. 

*'  Sure,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,"  snapped  the  ringmaster,  savagely,  "  I  want  you  to  go  on 
for  Walhalla's  turn." 

"  Whaat!  "  I  gasped;  "  Walha  — !  "  In  my  astonishment  I  had  all 
but  taken  to  my  heels.  Walhalla  and  Faust  were  our  two  clowns,  and 
the  joy  with  which  the  antics  of  the  pair  were  greeted  by  the  natives 
kept  them  more  in  evidence  than  any  other  performer.  ^  My  companions 
roared  with  delight  at  the  fancied  jest. 

"  Here !  You  swipes,"  cried  the  ringmaster,  whirling  upon  them ; 
"  go  over  and  brush  the  flies  off  that  elephant !  An'  keep  'em  brushed 
off !    D'ye  hear  me !  " 

"  Now,  then,  Franck,"  said  the  proprietor  —  this  sudden  rise  in  the 
social  scale  had  given  me  even  the  right  to  be  addressed  by  name  — 
"  Walhalla  has  a  fever.  Out  for  good,  I  suppose.  Damn  it,  Casey !  " 
turning  to  his  right-hand  man,  "  I  'm  always  losing  my  exhibits.  Look 
at  this  trip!  My  best  bare-back  skirt  dies  of  cholera  in  Singapore. 
My  best  cycler  breaks  his  neck  in  Rangoon.  The  plague  walks  off 
with  my  best  trap  man  in  Bombay  —  damn  the  hole !  Why  in  hell  is 
it  always  the  stars  that  go  ?  Now  it 's  Walhalla.  Five  turns  cut  out 
already.  If  we  lose  any  more,  we  *re  done  for.  We  can't,  that 's  all. 
Now—" 

"  But  I  'm  no  circus  man  I  "  I  protested,  as  his  eye  fell  on  me. 

"  Oh,  hell ! "  said  the  ringmaster,  "  You  've  been  with  us  long 
enough  to  know  Walhalla's  gags,  and  you  can  work  up  the  stunts  in  a 
couple  of  rehearsals." 

"  But  there  's  the  violin  act !  "  I  objected,  recalling  a  combination  of 
alleged  music  and  tumbling  that  always  "  brought  down  the  house." 

"  We  '11  have  to  cut  that  out.     But  you  can  put  on  the  others." 

"  There  '11  be  ten  chips  a  day  in  it,"  put  in  "  Fitz,"  casually. 

"  Eh  —  er  —  ten  rupees !  "  I  choked.  Self-respecting  beachcomber 
though  I  was,  I  would  have  turned  missionary  at  that  price. 

"  All  right,  sir.     I  '11  make  a  try  at  it,"  I  answered. 

"  Of  course,"  said  "  Fitz."  "  Go  and  get  tiffin  and  be  back  in  half  an 
hour.     I  '11  have  Faust  here  for  a  rehearsal." 

I  sprang  for  an  exit,  but  stopped  suddenly  as  a  thought  struck  me :  — 


ilB^Hi^ 


SAWDUST  AND  TINSEL  IN  THE  ORIENT  287 

"But  say,"  I  wailed,  "we're  aground!     The  clothes  — !" 

"  Stretch  a  leg  and  get  tiffin !  "  cried  the  ringmaster ;  "  Walhalla's 
rags  are  all  here." 

From  nightfall  until  the  audience,  which  "  Fitz  "  was  holding  back 
as  long  as  possible,  stormed  the  tent,  I  worked  feverishly  with  Faust 
in  perfecting  "  gags,"  tumbles,  and  the  time-honored  brands  of  "  horse- 
play." When  our  privacy  was  invaded,  I  scurried  away  to  the  dress- 
ing-tent to  be  made  up.  Several  long-established  antics  we  were 
obliged  to  omit  until  the  next  day  gave  more  opportunity  for  rehearsal ; 
but  the  clouted  audience  was  uncritical,  the  Europeans  indifferent  to 
"  tommy-rot,"  and  the  performance  passed  with  no  worse  mishap  to 
the  new  member  of  the  troup  than  one  too  realistic  fall  and  an  occa- 
sional relapse  into  seriousness. 

Yet  life  as  a  circus  clown  was  nothing  if  not  serious  —  under  the 
paint.  The  least  difficult  functions  of  this  new  calling  were  those  exe- 
cuted in  public.  To  strike  "  Mile.  Montgomery  "  squarely  on  the  head 
with  a  paper  hoop  while  holding  one  leg  in  the  air,  and  to  fall  down 
from  the  imaginary  impact  with  a  whoop  was  as  simple  a  matter  as  to 
do  the  same  thing  in  all  solemnity  and  the  uniform  of  a  "  swipe."  It 
was  back  in  the  dressing-tent,  scraping  dried  paint  off  one  side  of  my 
blistered  countenance  while  my  fellow  fool  daubed  fresh  colors  on  the 
other,  jumping  out  of  one  ridiculous  costume  into  one  more  idiotic, 
turning  the  place  topsy-turvy  in  a  mad  scramble  for  a  misplaced 
dunce  cap  or  a  lost  slap-stick,  that  I  began  to  lose  my  fascination  for 
this  honored  profession.  On  those  days  when  we  favored  Colomboans 
with  two  performances,  there  was  little  hilarity  in  the  dethroned  scara- 
mouch who  made  his  bed  of  chairs  at  the  ring  side.  I  wondered  no 
more  at  the  funereal  countenance  with  which  Walhalla  had  been  wont 
to  haunt  our  morning  hours  before  the  fever  fell  upon  him. 

One  long  week  I  wore  the  cap  and  bells  on  the  cricket  ground  of 
Colombo.  All  good  fortune,  however,  must  have  an  end  —  even  ten- 
rupee  incomes  for  stranded  wanderers.  There  dawned  a  day  when 
our  canvas  dwelling  came  down  by  the  run,  and  the  mixed  odor  of 
sweat  and  sawdust  was  wafted  away  on  the  hot  monsoon  that  sweeps 
across  the  playground  of  Ceylon.  The  season  of  Fitzgerald  was  over. 
The  naked  stevedores  bundled  into  the  ship's  hold  the  chest  that  con- 
tained Walhalla's  merry  raiment  as  carelessly  as  they  threw  the  sec- 
tions of  the  lion's  cage  on  top  of  it.  On  the  forward  deck  the  moth- 
eaten  tiger  peered  through  the  bars  at  his  native  jungle  behind  the  city, 
and  rubbed  a  watery  eye;  at   the   rail  an  unpainted   Faust   stared 


288      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

gloomily  down  at  the  churning  screw.  There  were  no  tears  shed  by 
the  united  quartet  that,  from  the  far  end  of  the  breakwater,  watched 
the  circus  sink  hull-down  on  the  southern  horizon ;  but  as  we  straggled 
back  at  dusk  to  join  the  beachcombers  under  the  palms  of  Gordon 
Gardens,  I  caught  myself  feeling  now  and  then  in  the  band  of  my 
trousers  for  the  sovereigns  I  had  sewed  there. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THREE   HOBOES   IN    INDIA 

THE  departure  of  Ole  for  home  as  a  consul  passenger,  closely 
followed  by  that  of  Askins  for  India,  "  ere  his  elusive  chips 
made  their  escape,"  left  me  the  oldest  '*  comber  "  on  the  beach. 
That  honor  might  quickly  have  fallen  to  the  next  of  heir  but  for  the 
pleading  of  a  fellow-countryman ;  for  the  merry  circus  days  had  left  me 
a  fortune  that  would  carry  me  far  afield  in  the  vast  peninsula  to  the 
north.  Marten  of  Tacoma,  tally  clerk  of  the  British  Steam  Navigation 
Company,  promised  to  secure  me  a  place  in  the  same  capacity  if  I 
would  delay  my  departure  until  pay  day,  that  he  might  accompany 
me.  I  agreed,  for  the  ex-pearl-fisher  spoke  Hindustanee  fluently. 
Within  an  hour  I  was  seated,  notebook  in  hand,  at  the  edge  of  a  hatch 
of  a  newly  arrived  vessel,  drawing  four  rupees  a  day  and  free  from 
the  dread  of  losing  caste. 

On  the  morning  of  April  fourth,  we  took  leave  of  the  navigation 
company  and,  having  purchased  tickets  on  the  afternoon  steamer  to 
Tuticorin,  set  out  to  bid  farewell  to  our  acquaintances  in  the  city.  The 
hour  of  sailing  was  close  at  hand  when  Haywood,  the  much-wanted, 
burst  in  upon  us  at  Almeida's. 

*'  I  hear,"  he  shouted,  "  that  you  fellows  are  off  for  India." 

We  nodded. 

"  I  'm  going  along,"  he  announced. 

Naturally,  we  scowled.  But  on  what  ground  could  we  protest? 
One  does  not  choose  his  fellow-passengers  on  an  ocean  voyage.  More- 
over, I  owed  the  erstwhile  resident  of  Sing  Sing  some  consideration. 
For  a  week  before,  as  we  were  leaving  the  favorite  shop  in  Pettah,  after 
a  midnight  lunch,  a  Singhalese,  mad  with  hasheesh  smoking,  had  sought 
a  quarrel  with  us.  Knowing  the  weakness  of  a  native  fist,  I  made  no 
attempt  to  ward  off  a  threatened  blow.  Before  it  fell,  Haywood  sud- 
denly flung  the  screaming  fellow  into  the  gutter,  and  only  then  did  I 
note  that  the  hand  I  had  thought  empty  clutched  a  long,  thin  knife. 

We  held  our  peace,  therefore,  resolving  to  shake  off  our  unwelcome 
companion  at  the  first  opportunity,  and,  marching  down  to  the  quaran- 
»9  289 


290      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

tine  station,  tumbled  with  a  multitude  of  Indian  coolies  into  a  barge 
that  soon  set  us  on  board  the  S.  S.  Kasara. 

'*  You  see,"  said  Haywood,  two  hours  later,  pointing  away  to  Cey- 
lon hovering  on  the  e.vening  horizon,  "  if  I  'd  hung  round  that  joint 
another  week,  I  'd  been  pinched  sure.  I  got  to  get  out  of  British  terri- 
tory, and  with  no  show  to  ship  out  of  Colombo,  the  only  chance  was  to 
make  a  break  through  India.  If  I  'd  come  alone,  I  'd  'ave  been  spotted. 
But  with  three  of  us  I  won't  be  noticed  half  as  quick." 

Suddenly  a  cabin  door  within  reach  of  our  hands  opened,  and  into 
our  midst  stepped  Bobby,  in  full  uniform. 

"  What  the  devil !  "  I  gasped,  **  Thought  your  beat  was  between  the 
clock  tower  and  the  Gardens  ?  " 

Over  Haywood's  face  had  spread  the  hue  of  a  shallow  sea,  and  his 
lower  jaw  hung  loose  on  its  hinges. 

"  Aha !  Bobs,"  grinned  Marten,  "  doin'  a  skip  act,  eh  ?  Well,  I  'm 
mum." 

"  Skip  bloody  'ell,"  snorted  Bobby,  "  I  'm  h'off  to  Madras  to  snake 
back  a  forger  they  've  rounded  up  there." 

"  Sure  that 's  all  ?  "  demanded  my  partner. 

"  Yep,"  smiled  Bobs. 

Haywood  drew  a  deep  breath  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  By  God,  Bobs,"  he  muttered,  "  do  you  want  to  give  me  heart- 
failure  ?     Thought  sure  you  was  campin'  on  my  trail." 

"  Naw,"  answered  the  policeman,  "  none  o'  the  toffs  in  Colombo 
ayn't  seen  them  notices  yet.     But  you  'd  best  keep  on  the  move." 

The  rumor  that  there  were  three  white  men  "  on  deck  with  the  nig- 
gers "  soon  found  its  way  to  the  cabin,  and  brought  down  upon  us  a 
visitation  that  poor  Jack  Tar  must  often  suffer  in  the  Orient.  He 
was  a  missionary  from  Kansas,  stationed  in  the  hills  of  Mysore.  Mar- 
ten and  I,  refusing  to  admit  his  assertion  that,  as  sailors,  we  were,  ex 
officio,  drunken,  dissolute,  ambitionless  louts,  were  cruelly  abandoned 
to  future  damnation.  But  Haywood,  who  had  been  wondering  till 
then  where  he  could  "  raise  the  dust  for  an  eye-opener  in  the  morning," 
pleaded  guilty  to  every  charge  and,  in  the  course  of  a  half-hour,  was 
duly  "  converted." 

"  Do  you  men  know  why  you  have  no  money ;  why  you  must  travel 
on  deck  with  natives  ?  "  demanded  the  missionary,  in  parting.  "  It 's 
because  you  're  not  Christians." 

We  might  have  pointed  out  that  the  Lascars  chattering  about  the 
deck  drew  a  monthly  wage  because  they  were  Hindus.     But  why  pro- 


I 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  291 

long  the  argument?     Haywood  had  already  pocketed  the  two  rupees 
that  made  our  toleration  worth  while. 

We  landed  with  Bobby  in  the  early  morning  and  bade  him  farewell 
sooner  than  we  had  expected.  For  a  native  on  the  wharf  handed 
him  a  telegram  announcing  that  the  forger  was  already  en  route  for 
Colombo  in  charge  of  a  Madras  officer.  Tuticorin  was  an  uninspiring 
collection  of  mud  huts  and  reeking  bazaars.  Our  halt  there  was  brief. 
It  would  have  been  briefer  had  we  not  chanced  to  run  across  Askins. 
The  erudite  wanderer  had  stranded  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated. 
I  took  pleasure  in  setting  him  afloat  again,  and  caught  the  last  glimpse 
of  his  familiar  figure,  beginning  to  bend  a  bit  now  under  the  weight  of 
twenty  years  of  "  knocking  about,"  as  the  train  bearing  us  northward 
rumbled  through  the  village. 

Even  the  beachcomber  does  not  walk  in  India.  To  ride  is  cheaper. 
Third-class  fare  ranges  from  two-fifths  to  a  half  a  cent  a  mile,  and 
on  every  train  is  a  compartment  reserved  for  "  Europeans  and  Eura- 
sians only,"  into  which  no  native  may  enter  on  penalty  of  being  fright- 
ened out  of  his  addled  wits  by  a  bellowing  official. 

Descending  at  the  first  station  to  quench  a  tropical  thirst,  I  was  as- 
tonished to  see  Bobby  peering  out  of  a  second-class  window. 

"  I  could  n't  read  the  bloody  wire  without  me  glasses,"  he  confided, 
as  I  drew  near,  "  an'  I  don't  think  I  '11  be  able  to  find  'em  before  this 
'ere  ticket 's  run  out.  We  don't  git  h'off  fer  a  run  up  to  Madras  every 
fortn'ght,  an'  I  ayn't  goin'  to  miss  this  one." 

As  I  turned  back  to  join  my  companions,  the  missionary  from  Kan- 
sas appeared  at  the  door  of  the  same  compartment.  Evidently  he  had 
thought  better  of  his  heartless  decision  to  leave  me  to  perdition,  for 
he  flung  the  door  wide  open. 

"  Come  and  ride  with  me  to  the  next  station,"  he  commanded ;  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  'm  third-class,"  I  answered. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  padre,  "  I  know  the  guard." 

Having  no  other  plausible  excuse  to  offer,  I  complied,  and  endured  a 
half-hour  sermon.  Through  it  all,  Bobby  sat  stiffly  erect  in  his  corner, 
for  to  my  amazement  the  minister  did  not  once  address  him. 

"  How  's  this  ?  "  I  demanded,  as  we  drew  into  the  first  station.  The 
Kansan  was  choosing  some  tracts  from  his  luggage  in  the  next  com- 
partment. "  Why  don't  he  try  to  convert  you,  being  so  good  a  sub- 
ject?" 

E  did,"  growled  Bobby,  "  bloody  'ell,  'e  did.     But  I  shut  'im  off. 


«  n 


'292      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Told  'im  I  was  one  o'  the  shinin'  lights  o'  the  Salvation  Army  in  Co- 
lombo. Blawst  me  h'eyes,  why  can't  these  padres  sing  their  song  to 
the  niggers  an'  let  h'onest  Englishmen  alone!  One  of  'em  gits  to 
wind'ard  o'  me  every  time  I  breaks  h'out  fer  a  little  holidye." 

Armed  with  the  tracts,  I  returned  to  my  solicitous  companions  and 
settled  down  to  view  the  passing  landscape.  It  bore  small  resemblance 
to  that  of  Ceylon.  On  either  hand  stretched  treeless  flat-lands, 
parched  and  brown  as  Sahara,  a  desert  blazed  at  by  an  implacable  sun 
and  unwatered  for  months.  A  few  native  husbandmen,  remnant  of 
the  workers  in  abundant  season,  toiled  on  in  the  face  of  frustrated 
hopes,  scratching  with  worthless  wooden  plows  the  arid  soil,  that  re- 
fused to  give  back  the  seed  intrusted  to  it.  There  is  no  sadder,  more 
forlorn,  more  hopeless  of  human  creatures  than  this  man  of  the  masses 
in  India.  His  clothing  in  childhood  consists  of  a  string  around  his 
belly  and  a  charm-box  on  his  left  arm.  Grown  to  man's  estate,  he 
adds  to  this  a  narrow  strip  of  cotton,  tied  to  the  string  behind  and 
hanging  over  it  in  front.  Regularly,  each  morning,  he  draws  forth  a 
preparation  of  coloring  matter  and  cow-dung — for  the  cow  is  a  sacred 
animal  —  and  daubs  on  his  forehead  the  sign  of  his  caste,  but  the  strip 
of  cotton  he  renews  only  when*  direst  necessity  demands.  His  home 
is  a  wretched  mud  hut,  too  low  to  stand  in,  where  he  burrows  by  night 
and  squats  on  his  heels  by  day.  With  the  buoyant  Singhalese  he  has 
little  in  common.  Sad-faced  ever,  if  he  smiles  there  is  no  joy  in  the 
grimace.  Enchained  and  bound  down  by  an  inexorable  system  of 
caste,  held  in  the  bondage  of  an  enforced  habit  of  mind,  habitually 
overcome  with  a  sense  of  his  own  inferiority,  he  is  disgusting  in  his 
groveling. 

A  hundred  miles  north  of  the  seacoast,  we  halted  to  visit  the  famous 
Brahmin  temple  of  Madura.  Haywood's  interest  in  architecture  was 
confined  to  such  details  as  the  strength  and  resistance  of  window  bars, 
but  he  had  developed  a  quaking  fear  of  daytime  solitude  and  would 
not  be  separated  from  us. 

The  temple  served  well  as  an  introduction  to  the  fantastic  extrava- 
gance of  Oriental  building.  Its  massive  outer  walls  inclosed  a  vast 
plot  of  ground.  In  the  center,  surrounded  by  a  chaos  of  smaller 
edifices,  rose  the  inner  temple,  its  cone-shaped  roof  and  slender  domes 
a  great  field  of  burnished  gold  before  which  the  eye  quailed  in  the 
cutting  sunlight.  Above  all,  the  four  gateways  to  the  inclosure  chal- 
lenged attention.  Identical  in  form,  yet  vastly  different  in  minor  de- 
tail, they  towered  twelve  stories  above  the  lowly  huts  and  swarming 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  293 

bazaars  of  the  city  that  radiates  from  the  sacred  area.  Four  thousand 
statues  of  Hindu  gods  —  to  quote  mathematical  experts  —  adorned 
each  gateway,  hideous-faced  idols,  each  pouring  down  from  four  pairs 
of  hands  his  blessing  on  the  groveling  humans  who  starved  beneath. 

Within  the  gates,  under  vaulted  archways,  swarmed  multitudes ;  pil- 
grims in  the  rags  of  contrition,  shopkeepers  shrieking  the  virtues  of 
their  wares  from  their  open  booths,  screaming  vendors  of  trinkets, 
abject  coolies  cringing  before  their  countrymen  of  higher  caste, 
loungers  seeking  relief  from  the  sunshine  outside.  A  sunken-eyed 
youth  wormed  his  way  through  the  throng  and  offered  us  guidance 
at  two  annas.  We  accepted,  and  followed  him  down  a  branch  passage- 
way to  the  lead-colored  pond  in  which  un  fastidious  pilgrims  washed 
away  their  sins ;  then  out  upon  an  open  space  for  a  nearer  view  of  the 
golden  roofs.  High  up  within,  whispered  the  youth,  while  Marten  in- 
terpreted, dwelt  a  god ;  but  we,  as  white  men,  dared  not  enter  to  verify 
the  assertion. 

We  turned  back  instead  to  the  quarters  of  the  sacred  elephants. 
Here  seven  of  the  jungle  monsters,  chained  by  a  foot,  thrashed  about 
over  their  supper  of  hay  in  a  roofless  stable.  They  were  as  ready  to 
accept  a  tuft  of  fodder  from  a  heathen  sahib  as  from  the  dust-clad 
faquir  who  had  tramped  many  a  burning  mile  to  perform  this  holy 
act  for  the  acquiring  of  merit.  Children  played  in  and  out  among  the 
animals.  The  largest  was  amusing  himself  by  setting  the  urchins,  one 
by  one,  on  his  back.  But  in  the  far  corner  stood  another  that  even 
the  clouted  keepers  shunned.  The  most  sacred  of  a  holy  troop,  our 
guide  assured  us,  for  he  was  mad,  and  wreaked  a  furious  vengeance  on 
whomsoever  came  within  reach  of  his  writhing  trunk.  Yet  —  if  the 
sunken-eyed  youth  spoke  truly  —  it  was  no  misfortune  to  have  life 
crushed  out  by  this  holiest  of  animals.  The  coolie  suffering  that  fate 
was  reborn  a  farmer,  the  peasant  a  shopkeeper,  the  merchant  a  war- 
rior. Was  it  satisfaction  with  their  station  in  life  or  a  weakness  of 
faith  ?     We  noted  that  even  the  despised  sudras  avoided  the  far  corner. 

**  And  how  about  a  white  man  ?  "  asked  Haywood. 

"  A  sahib,"  said  our  guide,  "  when  he  dies,  becomes  a  crow.  There- 
fore are  white  men  afraid  to  die." 

We  turned  out  again  into  the  bazaars.  Naked  girls,  carrying  baskets, 
were  quarreling  over  the  offal  of  passing  beasts.  The  faqade  of  every 
hut  was  decorated  with  splashes  of  manure,  each  bearing  the  imprint 
of  a  hand.  For  fuel  is  there  none  in  this  treeless  land,  save  bois  de 
vache. 


294      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD        J 

With  nightfall,  Haywood,  promising  to  return  quickly,  set  out  to 
visit  the  missionaries  of  Madura,  to  each  of  whom  the  Kansan  had 
given  him  a  note.  Before  he  rejoined  us  at  the  station  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  "  raising  the  wind  "  to  the  sum  of  three  full  fares  to  the 
next  city.  Yet  he  sneered  at  our  extravagance  in  purchasing  tickets 
for  a  night  ride,  and,  tucking  away  the  "  convert  money  "  in  the  band 
of  his  tropical  helmet,  followed  us  out  upon  the  platform.  The  train 
was  crowded.  A  band  of  coolies,  whom  the  station  master,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  white  travelers,  had  thrust  into  the  European  compartment, 
tumbled  out  as  rats  scurry  from  a  suddenly  lighted  room,  and  left  us 
in  full  possession. 

In  India,  as  in  Europe,  tickets  are  not  taken  up  on  the  train;  they 
are  punched  at  various  stations  en  route  by  local  officials,  misnamed 
"  collectors."  The  collectors,  however,  are  commonly  Eurasian  youths, 
deferential  to  white  men  and  no  match  in  wits  for  beachcombers. 

Having  turned  out  the  light  in  the  ceiling  of  our  compartment,  we 
stretched  out  on  the  two  wooden  benches  and  laid  plans  for  the  morrow. 
At  each  halt  Marten  kept  look-out.  If  the  collector  carried  no  lantern, 
Haywood  had  merely  to  roll  under  a  bench  until  he  had  passed.  At 
a  whisper  of  "  bull's-eye  "  our  unticketed  companion  slipped  through 
the  opposite  door,  and  watched  the  progress  of  the  half-breed  by  peer- 
ing under  the  train  at  his  uniformed  legs.  Once  he  was  taken  red- 
handed.  It  was  after  midnight,  and  we  had  all  three  fallen  asleep. 
Suddenly  there  came  the  rapping  of  a  punch  on  the  sill  of  the  open 
window. 

"  Tickets,  sahibs,"  said  an  apologetic  voice. 

"  Say,  mate,"  whispered  Haywood,  "  I  'm  on  the  rocks.  Can't  you 
slip  me?     Have  a  cigar." 

The  Eurasian  declined  the  proffered  stogie  with  a  startled  shake  of 
the  head,  punched  our  tickets,  and  passed  on  without  a  word.  Hay- 
wood sat  on  tenter-hooks  for  several  moments,  but  the  engine  screeched 
at  last,  and  he  lay  down  again,  vowing  to  wake  thereafter  at  every 
halt. 

We  arrived  at  Trinchinopoly  in  the  small  hours  and  stretched  out 
on  a  station  bench  to  sleep  out  the  night  undisturbed.  The  chief  of 
Haywood's  difficulties,  however,  was  still  to  be  overcome,  for  the  only 
exit  from  the  platform  was  guarded  by  a  Eurasian  who  was  sure  to 
call  for  tickets.  It  was  Marten,  given  to  sudden  inspirations,  who 
saved  the  day  for  the  New  Yorker.    As  we  approached  the  gate,  he 


I 


A  Hindu  of  Madras  with  caste-mark,  of  cow-dung  and 
coloring-matter,  on  his  forehead 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  295 

ran   forward  and,  to  my  astonishment,  attempted  to   force  his  way 
through  it  without  producing  his  ticket. 

"  Here !     Ticket,  please,  sahib,"  cried  the  Eurasian. 

"  Oh !     Go  to  the  devil !  "  growled  Marten. 

"  Ticket !     Where  is  your  ticket  ?     Stop !  " 

Marten  pushed  the  collector  aside  and  stepped  out. 

"  Ah !  "  screeched  the  official,  "  I  know  !  You  have  n't  any  ticket. 
You  stole  your  ride.     Come  back,  or  I  '11  call  a  policeman." 

The  man  of  inspiration  sprang  at  the  half-breed  with  a  savage  snarl 
and  grasped  him  by  the  collar. 

"  What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  saying  I  have  n't  any  ticket  ?  I  '11 
break  your  head." 

"  But  I  know  you  have  n't,"  persisted  the  collector,  though  somewhat 
meekly. 

"  Do  you  think  that  sahibs  travel  without  tickets  ?  "  roared  Marten, 
drawing  the  bit  of  cardboard  from  his  pocket.  "  Take  your  bloody 
ticket,  but  don't  ever  tell  a  sahib  again  that  he  's  stealing  his  rides." 

The  Eurasian  stretched  out  a  hand  to  me,  mumbling  an  apology,  but 
was  so  overcome  with  fear  and  the  dread  of  accusing  another  innocent 
sahib  that  Haywood  stepped  out  behind  us  unchallenged. 

We  were  waylaid  by  a  peregrinating  barber,  and  took  turns  in 
squatting  on  our  heels  for  a  quick  shave  and  a  slap  in  the  face  with  a 
damp  cloth.  The  service  cost  two  pice  (one  cent).  The  barber  was, 
perhaps,  twelve  years  old,  but  an  American  "  tonsorialist  "  would  have 
gasped  at  the  dexterity  with  which  he  manipulated  his  razor,  as  he 
would  have  wondered  at  several  long,  slim  instruments,  not  unlike  hat 
pins,  which  he  rolled  up  in  his  kit  as  he  finished.  These  were  tools 
rarely  employed  on  sahibs,  but  no  native  would  consider  a  shave  com- 
plete until  his  ears  had  been  cleaned  with  one  of  them. 

The  city  of  Trichinopoly  was  some  miles  distant  from  the  station. 
Though  we  were  agreed  that  such  action  was  the  height  of  extrava- 
gance, we  hailed  a  bullock  cart  and  offered  four  annas  for  the  trip  to 
the  town.  An  anna,  let  it  be  understood  once  for  all,  is  the  equivalent 
of  the  English  penny.  The  cart  was  the  crudest  of  two-wheeled  ve- 
hicles, so  exactly  balanced  on  its  axle  that  the  attempt  of  two  of  us  to 
climb  in  behind  came  near  suspending  the  tiny,  raw-boned  bullock  in 
mid-air.  A  screech  from  the  driver  called  our  attention  to  the  peril 
of  his  beast,  and  under  his  directions  we  succeeded  in  boarding  the 
craft  by  approaching  opposite  ends  and  drawing  ourselves  up  simul- 


296     A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

taneously.  The  wagon  was  some  four  feet  long  and  three  wide,  with 
an  arched  roof ;  too  short  to  He  down  in,  too  low  to  sit  up  in.  One  of 
us,  in  turn,  crouched  beside  the  driver  on  the  knife-like  edge  of  the 
head-board,  with  knees  drawn  up  on  a  level  with  the  eyes,  clinging  des- 
perately to  the  projecting  roof.  The  other  two  lay  in  close  embrace 
within,  with  legs  projecting  some  two  feet  behind. 

The  bullock  was  a  true  Oriental.  After  much  urging,  he  set  out  at 
the  mincing  gait  of  a  man  in  a  sack-race  —  a  lame  man,  of  very  limited 
vitality.  A  dozen  heavy  welts  from  the  driver's  pole  and  as  many 
shrill  screams  urged  him,  occasionally,  into  a  trot.  But  it  lasted  al- 
ways just  four  paces,  at  the  end  of  which  the  animal  shook  his  head 
slowly  from  side  to  side,  as  though  shocked  at  his  unseemly  conduct, 
and  fell  again  into  a  walk.  The  cart  was  innocent  of  springs,  the  road- 
way an  excellent  imitation  of  an  abandoned  quarry.  Our  sweltering 
progress  was  marked  by  a  series  of  shocks  as  from  an  electric  bat- 
tery. 

Marten  ordered  the  driver  to  conduct  us  to  an  eating-shop.  The 
native  grinned  knowingly  and  turned  his  animal  into  a  by-path  leading 
to  a  sahib  hotel.  When  we  objected  to  this  as  too  high-priced,  he 
shook  his  head  mournfully  and  protested  that  he  knew  of  no  native 
shop  which  white  men  might  enter.  We  bumped  by  a  score  of  restau- 
rants, but  all  bore  the  sign  "  For  Hindus  Only." 

At  last,  in  a  narrow  alleyway,  the  bullock  fell  asleep  before  a  miser- 
able hut.  The  driver  screeched,  and  a  startled  coolie  tumbled  out  of 
the  shanty.  There  ensued  a  heated  debate  in  the  dialect  of  southern 
India,  in  which  Marten  fully  held  his  own.  For  a  time,  the  coolie  re- 
fused to  run  the  risk  of  losing  caste  through  our  polluting  touch,  but 
the  princely  offer  of  three  annas  each  won  him  over,  and  we  disem- 
barked, to  squat  on  his  creaking  veranda. 

The  bullock  cart  crawled  on.  The  coolie  ran  screaming  into  the 
hut  and  reappeared  with  three  banana  leaves,  a  wife,  and  a  multitude 
of  naked  urchins,  all  but  the  youngest  of  whom  carried  a  cocoanut 
shell  filled  with  water  or  curries.  These  being  deposited  within  reach, 
the  native  spread  the  leaves  before  us,  and  his  better  half  dumped  in 
the  center  of  each  a  small  peck  of  rice  that  burned  our  over-eager  fin- 
gers. The  meal  over,  we  rose  to  depart ;  but  the  native  shrieked  with 
dismay  and  insisted  that  we  carry  the  leaves  and  shells  away  with  us, 
as  no  member  of  his  family  dared  touch  them. 

We  wandered  on  through  the  bazaars  towards  the  towering  rock  at 
the  summit  of  which  sits  Tommy  Atkins,  puffing  drowsily  at  his  pipe, 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  297 

in  utter  indifference  to  the  approach  of  that  day  when  his  soul,  in  pun- 
ishment for  eating  of  the  flesh  of  the  sacred  cow,  shall  take  up  its 
residence  in  the  body  of  a  pig.  Our  dinner  had  been  more  abundant 
than  substantial.  Within  an  hour  I  caught  myself  eyeing  the  food 
spread  out  in  the  open  booths  on  either  side.  There  were  coils  of 
rope-like  pastry  fried  in  oil,  lumps,  balls,  cakes  of  sweetmeats,  chap- 
patties —  bread-sheets  smaller  and  more  brittle  than  those  of  the 
Arab  —  pans  of  dark  red  chilHes,  potatoes  cut  into  small  cubes  and 
covered  with  a  green  curry  sauce.  The  Hindu  is  as  much  given  to 
nibbling  as  the  Mohammedan.  By  choice,  perhaps,  he  would  eat  sel- 
dom and  heartily,  but  he  lives  the  most  literally  from  hand  to  mouth 
of  any  human  creature,  and  no  sooner  earns  a  half -anna  than  he  hur- 
ries away  to  sacrifice  it  to  his  ever-unsatisfied  hunger.  The  coolie  is 
rarely  permitted  to  enter  a  Hindu  restaurant,  the  white  man  never; 
and  brief  were  the  intervals  during  my  wanderings  in  India  that  I 
lived  on  other  fare  than  that  of  the  low-caste  native.  The  prices 
could  not  have  been  lower,  but  to  eat  of  the  messes  displayed  under 
the  ragged  awnings  of  Indian  shops  requires  an  imperturbable  tempera- 
ment, an  unrestrainable  appetite,  and  a  taste  for  edible  fire  acquired 
only  by  Oriental  residence. 

There  are  caste  rules,  too,  of  which  I  was  supremely  ignorant  when 
I  dropped  behind  my  companions  and  aroused  a  shopkeeper  asleep 
among  his  pots  and  pans.  For  months  I  had  been  accustomed,  in  my 
linguistic  ignorance,  to  pick  out  my  own  food;  but  no  sooner  had  I 
laid  hand  on  a  sweetmeat  than  the  merchant  shot  into  the  air  with  an 
agonized  scream  that  brought  my  fellow-countrymen  running  back 
upon  me. 

"  What 's  the  nigger  bawling  about,  Marten  ?  "  demanded  Haywood. 

"  Oh,  Franck  's  gone  and  polluted  his  pan  of  sweets." 

"  But  I  only  touched  the  one  I  picked  up,"  I  protested,  "  and  I  ni 
going  to  eat  that." 

"  These  fool  niggers  won't  see  it  that  way,"  replied  Marten ;  "  if  you 
put  a  finger  on  one  piece,  the  whole  dish  is  polluted.  He  's  sending  for 
a  low-caste  man  now  to  carry  the  panful  away  and  dump  it.  No- 
body *11  buy  anything  while  it  stays  here." 

The  keeper  refused  angrily  to  enter  into  negotiations  after  this  dis- 
aster and  we  moved  on  to  the  next  booth.  Under  the  tutelage  of 
Marten,  I  stood  afar  off  and  pointed  a  respectful  finger  from  one  dish 
to  another.  The  proprietor,  obeying  my  orders  of  "  ek  annika  do,  cheh 
pisika  da  "  (one  anna  of  that,  six  pice  of  this)  filled  several  canoe- 


298      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

shaped  sacks  made  of  leaves  sewn  together  with  thread-like  weeds,  and, 
motioning  to  me  to  stand  aloof,  dropped  the  bundles  into  my  hands, 
taking  care  to  let  go  of  each  before  it  had  touched  my  palm. 

Go  where  we  would,  the  cry  of  pollution  preceded  us.  The  vendor 
of  green  cocoanuts  entreated  us  to  carry  away  the  shells  when  we  had 
drunk  the  milk ;  passing  natives  sprang  aside  in  terror  when  we  tossed 
a  banana  skin  on  the  ground.  The  seller  of  water  melons  would  have 
been  compelled  to  sacrifice  his  entire  stock  if  one  seed  of  the  slice  in 
our  hands  had  fallen  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  banana  leaf  that  cov- 
ered his  stand. 

As  we  turned  a  comer  in  the  crowded  market  place,  Haywood,  who 
was  smoking,  accidentally  spat  on  the  flowing  gown  of  a  turbaned 
passer-by. 

**  Oh !  sahib !  "  screamed  the  native,  in  excellent  English,  "  See  what 
you  have  done !  You  have  made  me  lose  caste.  For  weeks  I  may  not 
go  among  my  friends  nor  see  my  family.  I  must  stop  my  business,  and 
wear  rags,  and  sit  in  the  street,  and  pour  ashes  on  my  head,  and  go  often 
to  the  temple  to  purify  myself."  i 

"  Tommy-rot,"  said  Haywood. 

But  was  it?  Certainly  not  to  the  weeping  Hindu,  who  turned  back 
the  way  he  had  come. 

These  strange  superstitions  make  India  a  land  of  especial  hardship 
to  the  white  vagabond  "  on  the  road."  He  is,  in  the  natural  course 
of  events,  as  safe  from  violence  as  in  England ;  but  once  off  the  beaten 
track  he  finds  it  difficult  to  obtain  not  only  food  and  lodging,  but  the 
sine  qua  non  of  the  tropics  —  water.  In  view  of  this  fact  the  rulers 
of  India  have  established  a  system  which,  should  it  come  to  his  ears, 
would  fill  the  American  "  hobo  "  with  raging  envy.  The  peninsula,  as 
the  world  knows,  is  divided  into  districts,  each  governed  by  a  commis- 
sioner and  a  deputy  commissioner.  Except  in  isolated  cases,  these  ex- 
ecutives are  Englishmen,  of  whom  the  senior  commonly  dwells  in  the 
most  important  city  of  his  territory,  and  the  deputy  in  the  second  in 
size.  The  law  provides  that  any  penniless  European  shall,  upon  appli- 
cation to  any  one  of  these  governors,  be  provided  with  a  third-class 
railway  ticket  to  the  capital  of  the  next  district,  and  also  with  "  batter  " 
—  money  with  which  to  buy  food  —  to  the  amount  of  one  rupee  a 
day.  The  beachcomber  who  wanders  inland,  therefore,  is  relayed 
from  one  official  to  another,  at  the  expense  of  the  government,  to  any 
port  which  he  may  select.  This  ideal  state  of  affairs  is  well  known  to 
every  white  vagrant  in  India,  who  takes  it  duly  into  account,  like  every 


Hindus  of  all  castes  now  travel  by  train 


"Haywood"  snaps  me  as  I  am  getting  a  shave  in  Trichinopoly 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  299 

published  charity,  in  summing  up  the  ways  and  means  of  a  projected 
journey. 

Not  many  hours  after  our  arrival  in  Trichinopoly,  Marten  had  *'  gone 
broke."  The  four  rupees  a  day  of  a  tally  clerk  was  a  princely  income 
in  the  Orient ;  but  the  ex-pearl-fisher  was  imbued  with  the  adventurer's 
philosophy  that  "  money  is  made  to  spend,"  and  as  the  final  act  of  a 
(lay  of  extravagance  had  tossed  his  last  anna  to  an  idiot  roaming 
through  the  bazaars.  Haywood  was  anxious  to  **  salt  down "  the 
rupees  in  his  hat  band,  I  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  so  important  a 
personage  as  a  district  commissioner.  Thus  it  happened  that  as  noon- 
day fell  over  Trichinopoly,  three  cotton-clad  Americans  emerged  from 
the  native  town  and  turned  northward  towards  the  governor's  bun- 
galow. 

Heat  waves  hovered  like  fog  before  us.  Here  and  there  a  pathetic 
tree  cast  its  slender  shadow,  like  a  splash  of  ink,  across  the  white 
highway.  A  few  coolies,  their  skins  immune  to  sunburn,  shuffled 
through  the  sand  on  their  way  to  the  town.  We  accosted  one  to  in- 
quire our  way,  but  he  sprang  with  a  side  jump  to  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  roadway,  in  terror  of  our  polluting  touch. 

"  Commissioner  sahib  keh  bungalow  kehdereh  ?  "  asked  Marten. 

"  Hazur  hum  malum  neh,  sahib  (I  don't  know,  sir),"  stammered 
the  native,  backing  away  as  we  approached. 

"  Stand  still,  you  fellows,"  shouted  Marten ;  "  you  're  scaring  him  so 
he  can't  understand.  Every  nigger  knows  where  the  commissioner 
lives.     Commissioner  sahib  keh  bungalow  kehdereh  ?  " 

"  Far  down  the  road,  oh,  protector  of  the  unfortunate." 

We  came  upon  the  low  rambling  building  in  a  grove  among  rocky 
hillocks.  Along  the  broad  veranda  crouched  a  dozen  punkah-wallahs, 
pulling  drowsily  at  the  cords  that  moved  the  great  velvet  fans  within. 
Under  the  punkahs,  at  their  desks,  sat  a  small  army  of  native  officials, 
mere  secretaries  and  clerks,  most  of  them,  yet  quite  majestic  of  ap- 
pearance in  the  flowing  gowns,  great  black  beards,  and  brilliant  tur- 
bans of  the  high-class  Hindu.  Servants  swarmed  about  the  writers, 
groveling  on  their  knees  each  time  a  social  superior  deigned  to  issue  a 
command.     White  men  were  there  none. 

The  possessor  of  the  most  regal  turban  rose  from  his  cushions  as  we 
entered  and  addressed  us  in  English :  — 

"  Can  I  be  of  service  to  you,  sahibs  ?  " 

"  We  want  to  see  the  commissioner,"  said  Marten. 

"  The  commissioner  sahib,"  replied  the  Hindu,  *'  is  at  his  bunga- 


300      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

low.     He  will  perhaps  come  here  for  a  half  hour  at  three  o'clock." 

"  But  we  want  tickets  for  the  one  o'clock  train,"  Haywood  blurted 
out. 

"  I  am  the  assistant  commissioner,"  answered  the  native.  "  What 
the  commissioner  sahib  can  do  I  can  do.  But  it  is  a  very  long  process 
to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  the  district,  and  you  cannot,  perhaps,  catch 
the  one  o'clock  train.     Still,  I  shall  hurry  as  much  as  possible." 

In  his  breathless  haste  he  resumed  his  seat,  carefully  folded  his  legs, 
rolled  a  cigarette  with  great  deliberation,  blew  smoke  at  the  punkahs 
for  several  moments,  and,  pulling  out  the  drawers  of  his  desk,  examined 
one  by  one  the  ledgers  and  documents  within  them.  The  object  of 
his  search  was  not  forthcoming.  He  rose  gradually  to  his  feet,  made 
inquiry  among  his  hirsute  colleagues,  returned  to  his  cushions,  and, 
calling  a  dozen  servants  around  him,  despatched  them  on  as  many 
errands. 

"  It 's  the  ledger  in  which  we  enter  the  names  of  those  who  apply 
for  tickets,"  he  explained,  "it  will  soon  be  found";  and  he  lighted 
another  cigarette. 

A  servant  came  upon  the  book  at  last  —  plainly  in  sight  on  the  top 
of  the  assistant's  desk.  That  official  opened  the  volume  with  un- 
necessary reverence,  read  half  the  entries  it  contained,  and,  choosing 
a  native  pen,  prepared  to  write.  He  was  not  amusing  himself  at  our 
expense.  He  was  fully  convinced  that  he  was  moving  with  all  pos- 
sible celerity. 

Slowly  his  sputtering  pen  rendered  into  the  crippled  orthography  of 
his  native  tongue  comprehensive  biographies  of  the  two  mythological 
beings  whom  Marten  and  Haywood  chose  to  represent ;  and  the  writer 
turned  to  me.  I  protested  that  I  intended  to  buy  my  own  ticket ;  but 
the  assistant,  regarding  me,  evidently,  as  an  accessory  before  the  fact, 
insisted  that  the  story  of  my  life  must  also  adorn  the  pages  of  his 
ledger.  The  entry  completed,  he  laid  the  book  away  in  a  drawer, 
locked  it,  and  called  for  a  time-table. 

"  The  third-class  fare  to  Tanjore,"  he  mused,  "  is  twelve  annas. 
Two  tickets  will  be  one  and  eight.  Batter  for  a  half-day  for  two,  one 
rupee.  Total,  two  rupees  and  eight  annas.  I  shall  now  draw  upon 
the  treasurer  for  that  amount,"  and  he  dragged  forth  another  gigantic 
tome. 

"  Tanjore?  "  cried  Marten.  "  Why,  that  ain't  fifty  miles  from  here ! 
Is  that  as  far  as  you  're  going  to  ship  us  ?  " 

"  A  commissioner  lives  there,"  replied  the  Hindu,  *'  and  he  will  send 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  301 

you  on.  Each  district  is  allowed  to  spend  only  enough  for  a  ticket  to 
the  next  one." 

"  If  we  have  to  go  through  this  every  forty  miles,"  groaned  Marten, 
"  we  '11  die  before  we  get  anywhere." 

"  Let 's  try  the  commish,"  suggested  Haywood ;  "  where  's  his  joint?  " 

The  assistant  pointed  at  the  back  door,  and  we  struck  off  through 
the  rock-strewn  grove.  On  the  way,  Marten  fell  victim  to  another  in- 
spiration. 

"  I  've  got  it !  "  he  crowed,  as  we  came  in  sight  of  the  bodyguard  of 
servants,  flitting  in  and  out  among  the  plants  and  vines  of  the  com- 
missioner's veranda,  "  Just  watch  my  smoke." 

A  native  conducted  us  into  a  broad,  low  room,  richly  furnished  and 
cooled  by  rhythmically  moving  punkahs.  The  governor  of  the  dis- 
trict was  a  very  young  man,  the  junior,  perhaps,  of  some  of  our  trio. 
He  bade  us  be  seated,  ordered  a  servant  to  bring  us  cooling  drinks,  and, 
when  they  were  served,  signified  his  readiness  to  hear  our  story.  Mar- 
ten stepped  forward  and,  assuming  the  attitude  of  an  orator  on  whose 
word  hangs  the  fate  of  nations,  proceeded  to  trot  out  the  inspira- 
tion. 

"  We  have  come  to  you,  Mr.  Commissioner,"  he  began,  "  because  we 
must  be  in  Madras  to-morrow  morning,  and  we  can't  make  it  unless 
we  go  through  on  the  one  o'clock  train.  We  're  seamen,  sir,  from  a 
tramp  that  tied  up  in  Colombo  last  month.  A  couple  of  nights  ago  we 
got  shore  leave  and  went  for  a  cruise  around  the  city.  The  skipper 
told  us  to  be  on  board  at  midnight.  We  landed  on  the  wharf  at 
eleven,  an'  paid  off  our  'rickshaws  an'  yelled  for  a  sampan.  But  blast 
me  eyes,  sir,  if  she  was  n't  gone !  She  'd  pulled  'er  mud-hook  at  ten 
o'clock,  sir,  we  found  out,  an'  was  off  two  hours  before  the  skipper 
told  us  to  come  back,  an'  we  was  left  on  the  beach.  We  knowed  she 
was  makin'  fer  Madras,  so  we  comes  over  to  Tuticorin  an'  started  to 
catch  'er.  She  '11  be  off  to-morrow  morning  for  'ome,  an'  if  we  don't 
make  'er  we  '11  be  left  on  the  beach,  an'  all  our  clothes  is  on  board,  sir. 
One  of  us  " —  pointing  at  me  — "  'as  dibs  enough  to  take  'im  through, 
but  the  assistant  commissioner  won't  give  us  two  tickets  only  to 
Tanjore,  an'  eight  annas  batter,  an'  if  we  stop  in  every  district  it  '11 
take  a  week  to  get  there,  an'  cost  the  gover'ment  a  lot  o'  batter. 
Could  n't  you  give  us  a  ticket  straight  through,  sir,  so's  we  can  make 
'er,  an'  all  our  clothes  an'  papers  is  on  board,  sir." 

"  Are  you  sure  your  captain  will  let  you  back  on  board  ?  "  asked  the 
commissioner. 


302      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Sure,"  cried  Marten  and  Haywood  as  one  man. 

The  Englishman  snatched  an  official  sheet  from  a  drawer,  scrawled 
a  few  lines  on  it,  and  handed  it  to  our  spokesman. 

"  Here  's  an  order  for  through  tickets  and  a  day's  batter,"  he  said. 
"  Hurry  down  to  the  office  and  give  it  to  my  assistant." 

The  Hindu  force  was  dismayed  at  the  note.  The  assistant  scanned 
the  signature  suspiciously,  while  secretaries  and  clerks  crowded  around 
him. 

"  Why,  that  will  be  nearly  ten  rupees ! "  gasped  an  official,  perusing 
the  time-table. 

*'  I  wonder,"  mused  the  assistant,  "  has  the  commissioner  sahib 
power  to  grant  such  an  order  ?  " 

The  force  did  not  know.  There  were  few  things  of  importance, 
apparently,  that  it  did  know ;  but  the  haste  with  which  it  abandoned 
more  irksome  duties  and  fell  to  pulling  out  ponderous  volumes  proved 
that  it  was  eager  to  learn. 

"Yes,  here  it  is,"  sighed  the  senior  officer  at  last,  pointing  out  a 
page  to  his  colleagues,  "  *  within  the  discretion  of  the  commissioner.'  " 

"  Well,  julty  karow  !  "  shouted  Marten. 

There  is,  you  see,  a  Hindu  equivalent  for  "  hurry  up."  Philologists 
have  noted  it,  translators  have  found  it  valuable,  natives  use  it  to 
interpret  the  expression  that  falls  so  often  from  sahib  lips.  But  the 
records  make  no  mention  of  a  man  who  has  induced  a  Hindu  actually 
and  physically  to  julty  karow. 

*'  Come,"  urged  Haywood,  "  we  want  to  make  the  one  o*clock  train." 

"  I  will  hurry,"  promised  the  assistant,  transforming  his  turban 
into  a  sheet  and  gravely  rearranging  it.  "  I  shall  now  make  out  the 
order." 

"  But  give  us  the  tickets  and  cut  out  the  red  tape,"  growled 
Marten. 

"  Oh,  sahib,  that  is  impossible,"  gasped  the  Hindu.  "  I  must  make 
out  the  order  and  send  it  to  the  secretary  to  be  sealed.  Then  it  will 
go  to  the  treasurer,  who  will  make  a  note  of  it  and  send  it  to  the 
auditor  to  be  starnped  and  signed.  Then  it  will  be  returned  to  the  treas- 
urer, who  will  file  it  and  m^ke  out  a  receipt  to  send  back  to  the 
secretary,  who  will  send  it  to  me  to  be  signed,  and  the  auditor  — " 

But  Marten  had  fled  through  the  back  door  and  we  dashed  after 
him. 

"  You  know,"  said  the  commissioner,  as  he  finished  writing  a  second 
note,  "  you  can't  hurry  the  Aryan  brown.     Kipling  has  written  four 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  303 

lines  that  cover  the  subject.  I  've  told  them  to  give  you  the  tickets 
at  once  and  look  up  the  law  afterward.  But  you  probably  cannot 
catch  the  one  o'clock  train.  There  is,  however,  a  night  express  that 
reaches  Madras  in  the  morning,  and  you  may  take  that,  even  though 
there  is  an  excess  fare,  if  they  cannot  get  you  off  by  the  other." 

The  second  note  demoralized  the  force.  Urged  on  by  the  threat 
of  new  expenditures,  the  assistant  strove  bravely  for  once  against  his 
lethargic  Oriental  nature.  But  hurry  he  could  not,  from  lack  of 
practice.  His  pen  refused  to  write  smoothly,  the  treasurer's  keys 
were  out  of  place,  and,  when  found,  refused  to  fit  the  lock  of  the  strong 
box.  The  senior  gave  up  at  last,  and,  promising  that  a  secretary  would 
meet  us  at  the  station  in  the  evening  with  the  higher-priced  tickets, 
bade  us  good  day. 

As  we  rose  to  depart,  Marten  asked  for  water.  The  high-caste 
officials  scowled  almost  angrily  at  the  request;  they  cried  out  in  hor- 
riiied  chorus  when  Haywood  stepped  towards  a  chettie  in  the  corner 
of  the  room. 

"  Don't  touch  that,  sahib  I"  shrieked  the  assistant;  "I  shall  arrange 
to  give  you  a  drink." 

He  spoke  like  a  man  on  whom  had  suddenly  fallen  the  task  of 
launching  a  first-class  battleship.  One  can  smile  with  indulgence  at 
the  naked,  illiterate  coolie  who  clings  to  the  silly  superstitions  of  caste. 
The  ignorance  and  sterility  of  a  brain  weakened  by  centuries  of 
habitual  desuetude  pardons  him.  But  to  see  educated,  full-grown  men 
among  men  descend  to  the  fanatical  childishness  of  ridiculous  customs 
seems,  in  this  twentieth  century,  the  height  of  absurdity. 

Among  the  servants  within  the  building  were  none  low  enough  in 
caste  to  be  assigned  the  task  of  bringing  us  water.  The  assistant 
sent  for  a  punkah-wallah.  One  of  the  great  folds  of  velvet  fell 
motionless  and  there  sneaked  into  the  room  the  most  abject  of  human 
creatures.  A  curt  order  sounded.  The  sudra  dropped  to  a  squat, 
raised  his  clasped  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  shuffled  off  towards  the 
chettie.  Certainly,  had  he  had  a  tail  it  would  have  been  close  drawn 
between  his  legs. 

Picking  up  a  heavy  brass  goblet,  he  placed  it,  not  on  the  table,  but 
on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  officials  nearest  the 
blighted  spot  abandoned  their  desks,  and  the  entire  company  formed  a 
circle  around  us.     Haywood  stepped  forward  to  pick  up  the  cup. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  force,  "  stand  back !  " 

The  coolie  slunk  forward  with  the  chettie  and,  holding  it  fully  two 


304      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

feet  above  the  goblet,  filled  the  vessel,  and  drew  back  several  paces. 

"  Now  you  may  drink,"  said  the  assistant. 

"  Do  you  want  more  ?  "  he  asked,  when  the  cup  was  empty. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  leave  the  lota  on  the  floor  and  stand  back." 

The  punkah-wallah  filled  it  as  before. 

*'  Good  day,"  repeated  the  assistant,  when  we  acknowledged  our- 
selves satisfied,  "  but  you  must  carry  the  lota  away  with  you." 

"  But  it  costs  a  good  piece  of  money,"  suggested  Haywood. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  Hindu,  "  but  no  one  dares  touch  it  any  more." 

A  native  clerk  met  us  on  the  station  platform  at  nightfall,  with  tickets 
and  "  batter."  On  the  express  that  thundered  in  a  moment  later  were 
two  European  compartments ;  but  Haywood  was  roused  to  the  virile 
profanity  of  the  Bowery  at  finding  one  of  them  occupied  by  natives.  At 
the  climax  of  an  aria  that  displayed  to  advantage  his  remarkable 
vocabulary  of  execrations,  a  deep,  solemn  bass  sounded  from  the  next 
compartment :  — 

"  Young  man!    Have  you  no  fear  of  the  fires  of  hell?  " 

"  Oh !  Lord !  "  gasped  Marten,  "  Another  padre !  " 

"  Will  you  drive  these  niggers  out  of  here !  "  screamed  Haywood  to 
a  passing  guard. 

**  Take  the  next  compartment  behind,"  answered  the  official,  over 
his  shoulder ;  "  There  's  only  one  man  in  it."  -^ 

"  Yes !    But  he  's  a  missionary !  "  bawled  Marten. 

The  guard  was  gone.  The  station  master  gave  the  signal  for  de- 
parture and  we  boarded  the  express  with  a  sigh  of  resignation.  Hay- 
wood swore  to  wait  for  the  next  train  rather  than  endure  a  sermon; 
but  the  fear  of  being  left  behind  fell  upon  him,  and,  as  the  engine 
screeched,  he  scrambled  through  the  door  after  us. 

The  sermon  was  immediately  forthcoming,  and  the  information  we 
gleaned  anent  the  future  dwelling-place  of  blasphemous  seamen  was 
more  voluminous  than  encouraging.  Luckily,  towards  midnight  the 
missionary  exhausted  both  his  text  and  his  voice,  and  left  us  to  enjo) 
such  sleep  as  the  ticket  punchers  permitted. 

In  Haywood,  as  in  others  of  his  ilk,  neither  the  Hindu  nor  his  in- 
stitutions awakened  any  noticeable  degree  of  respect.  To  him  al 
natives,  from  Brahmins  to  sudras,  were  "  niggers,"  and  such  of  theii 
customs  as  did  not  conform  to  the  standards  set  up  in  the  vicinity  Oj 
Mulberry  Bend  he  branded  "  damn  nonsense."  He  was  a  graduate  oi 
a  school  in  which  differences  of  opinion  are  decided  in  -favor  of  th( 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  305 

disputant  first  able  to  crawl  to  his  feet  at  the  end  of  the  controversy. 
Nay,  more :  he  had  won  public  recognition  in  that  brand  of  oratory, 
and  had  long  since  outgrown  the  notion  that  there  was  any  court  of 
last  appeal  other  than  a  ''  knock-out."  There  were  several  little  points 
on  which  Marten  and  I  should  have  been  convinced  in  spite  of  our 
better  judgment  had  not  a  cruel  fate  enrolled  the  New  Yorker  in  the 
welter-weight  class. 

Now  the  Hindu  has  never  been  able  to  see  what  advantage  or  satis- 
faction arises  from  marring  the  visage  of  an  enemy.  He  takes  great 
joy  in  giving  a  foe  unpleasant  information  concerning  the  doings  of 
his  ancestors  back  to  the  sixth  generation,  in  carrying  off  his  wife,  or 
in  gathering  together  a  band  of  friends  to  accuse  him  in  court  of  some 
atrocious  crime.  But  his  anger  rarely  expresses  itself  in  muscular 
activity. 

"  When  a  sahib  becomes  angry,"  a  babu  once  confided  to  me,  "  he 
goes  insane.  He  loses  his  mind  and  makes  his  hands  hard  and  pushes 
them  often  and  swiftly  into  the  face  or  the  stomach  of  the  other  man, 
or  makes  his  feet  go  against  him  behind.  It  is  because  he  is  crazy 
that  he  does  such  foolish  things,  that  have  not  something  to  do  with 
the  thing  that  has  made  him  angry." 

Having  no  fear,  therefore,  of  being  repaid  in  his  own  coin,  Haywood 
had  contracted  the  pleasant  little  habit  of  "  beating  up  "  a  native  on 
the  slightest  provocation.  Such  conduct,  of  course,  is  not  confined  to 
beachcombers.  Many  a  European  hotel  in  the  Orient  displays  con- 
spicuous placards  politely  requesting  guests  not  to  beat  or  kick  the 
servants ;  but  to  make  their  complaints  to  the  manager. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  the  Hindu  heartily  deserves  an 
occasional  chastisement.  The  subtle  ways  in  which  he  can  annoy  a 
white  man  without  committing  an  act  that  can  legally  be  punished, 
transcend  the  imagination  of  the  Western  mind.  For  centuries  past, 
too,  the  sahib  has  been  permitted  to  defend  himself  against  such  per- 
secution after  the  orthodox  manner  of  the  Occident.  But  the  good 
old  days,  alas,  are  gone.  A  very  few  years  ago  an  act  was  passed 
making  assault  upon  a  native  a  crime.  The  world  outside  credited 
it  to  the  humanity  of  Lord  Curzon,  Residents  within  the  country 
whisper  that  an  overwhelming  desire  to  win  the  good  will  of  the 
natives  had  its  rise  at  the  moment  when  a  certain  great  European 
power  began  to  gaze  longingly  irom  its  bleak  steppes  in  the  north 
upon  this  vast  peninsula  below  the  Himalayas.  The  Hindu,  of  course, 
has  not  been  slow  to  realize  his  new  power.     Slap  a  native  lightly 


3o6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

in  the  face,  and  the  probabiHty  is  that  he  will  appear  in  court  to-mor- 
row with  a  lacerated  and  bleeding  countenance  and  a  score  of  friends 
prepared  to  swear  on  anything  from  the  Vedas  to  the  ashes  of  a 
sacred  bull  that  you  inflicted  the  injury. 

Haywood  was  fully  cognizant  of  this  state  of  affairs.  Certainly  it 
would  have  been  wisdom,  too,  on  the  part  of  one  anxious  to  pass 
through  India  as  unostentatiously  as  possible  to  have  endured  an  oc- 
casional petty  annoyance,  rather  than  to  attract  attention  by  resenting 
it.  But  endurance  was  not  Haywood's  strong  point,  and  a  score  of 
times  we  felt  called  upon  to  warn  him  that  his  belligerency  would  bring 
him  to  grief. 

In  the  early  morning  after  our  departure  from  Trichinopoly,  the 
prophecy  was  fulfilled.  The  express  stopped  at  a  suburban  station  of 
Madras,  and  Haywood  beckoned  to  a  vendor  of  bananas  on  the  plat- 
form. Now  the  youths  of  India  are  wont  to  gamble  with  bananas, 
because  matches  are  too  costly,  and  we  were  not  surprised  that  the  New 
Yorker  blazed  up  wrathfully  when  the  hawker  demanded  two  annas 
for  four. 

He  paid  the  exorbitant  price  under  protest,  and  settled  down  to 
break  his  fast.  The  fruit,  however,  proved  to  be  long  past  the  stage 
when  it  could  appeal  to  a  sahib  taste,  and  the  purchaser  rose  to  shake 
his  fist  at  the  deceitful  vendor.  The  shadow  of  a  derisive  grin  played 
on  the  features  of  the  native;  the  thumb  of  his  outspread  hand 
hovered,  entirely  by  accident,  around  the  end  of  his  nose;  and  he  fell 
to  chanting  a  ditty  that  a  man  ignorant  of  the  tongue  of  Madras  would 
have  considered  quite  harmless. 

"  He  says,"  interpreted  Marten,  "  that  your  grandfather  was  the  son 
of  a  pig,  and  fed  your  father  on  the  entrails  of  a  yellow  dog;  that 
your  grandmother  gave  birth  to  seven  puppies,  and  your  mo — " 

But  Haywood  had  snatched  open  the  door,  and,  before  the  terrified 
native  could  move,  he  "  made  his  foot  go  against  him  behind  "  in  no 
uncertain  manner.  The  Hindu  shrieked  like  a  lost  soul  thrown  into 
the  bottomless  pit,  abandoned  his  basket,  and  ran  screaming  down  the 
platform. 

Barely  had  the  New  Yorker  regained  his  seat  when  a  native  officer 
appeared  at  the  window. 

"  What  for  you  strike  the  coolie  ?  "  he  stammered,  angrily ;  "  You 
come  with  me !  I  arrest  you,"  and  he  attempted  to  step  into  the  com- 
partment. 


THREE  HOBOES  IN  INDIA  307 

"  Oh,  rot !  "  shouted  Marten,  ''  you  arrest  a  white  man !  Get  out  of 
here  or  I  '11  break  your  neck." 

The  policeman  tumbled  out  precipitately. 

''  Don't  let  him  bother  you,  Haywood,"  went  on  my  partner. 
"  Make  him  get  a  white  cop  if  he  wants  to  arrest  you." 

"  Huh !  Don't  imagine  for  a  minute  any  nigger  is  going  to  pinch  me," 
snorted  the  New  Yorker,  settling  down  and  lighting  his  pipe. 

"  I  '11  get  you  a  white  policeman,"  screamed  the  officer,  "  down  at 
the  Beach  station,  and  I  '11  ride  there  with  you." 

He  stepped  up  on  the  running  board  once  more. 

"  You  '11  ride  with  the  rest  of  the  niggers,"  roared  Marten.  "  This 
compartment  is  reserved  for  Europeans." 

The  officer  was  fully  aware  of  that  fact.  He  stepped  into  the  next 
compartment  and,  ordering  the  natives  who  had  been  peering  at  us 
over  the  top  of  the  partition  to  sit  down,  glued  his  eyes  upon  us.  The 
train  went  on.  As  far  as  the  next  station,  Haywood  laughed  at  the 
threat  of  arrest  on  so  slight  a  charge.  Before  we  had  reached  the 
second,  he  had  grown  serious,  and,  as  we  drew  near  the  third,  he 
addressed  us  in  an  undertone:  — 

"  Say !     I  'm  going  to  let  this  fellow  pinch  me." 

"  What !  "  whispered  Marten,  "  you  're  a  fool !  A  nigger  policeman 
can't  arrest  a  white  man !  " 

"  He  can  if  the  white  man  lets  him,"  retorted  Haywood.  "  There 's 
always  a  bunch  of  Bobbies  at  the  Beach  station  and  any  white  cop  in 
Madras  would  recognize  me,  an'  they  'd  hand  me  out  about  five  years 
of  the  lock-step.  One  of  you  claim  my  bundle  's  yours,  an'  take  it  an' 
this  note  from  the  padre  to  the  Christer  it 's  addressed  to,  an'  leave 
'em  there." 

"  Heh,  you,"  he  called  to  the  officer  above  us ;  "  if  you  want  to  run 
me  in  I  '11  go  along." 

The  officer  came  near  smiling.  What  native  would  not  have  envied 
him  the  honor  of  conducting  a  sahib  to  a  poHce  station?  I  swung  the 
New  Yorker's  bundle  over  my  shoulder  and  we  stepped  out.  The 
policeman  walked  at  a  respectful  distance  from  his  prisoner  and  led 
the  way  across  the  Maidan.  Three  furlongs  from  the  railway,  he 
entered  the  yard  of  a  small,  brick  cottage,  framed  in  shrubbery  and 
flowers,  and,  opening  the  door  for  Haywood,  closed  it  in  our  faces. 

We  turned  away  towards  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  building,  an  imposing 
modern  edifice  that  housed  the  addressee  of  Haywood's  note. 


3o8      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  I  '11  pick  you  up  again  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  Marten,  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps.  "  I  've  got  an  uncle  living  in  town  with  a  nigger  wife, 
and  I  always  touch  him  for  a  few  good  meals  when  I  land  here." 

The  association  manager  consented  to  take  charge  of  Haywood's 
bundle,  and  offered  me  one  night's  lodging  until  I  could  "  look 
around."  I  accepted  gladly,  though  there  were  still  four  sovereigns 
in  the  band  of  my  trousers.  Force  of  habit  led  me  down  to  the  harbor ; 
but,  as  I  anticipated,  I  ran  no  danger  of  employment  in  that  quarter. 
The  boarding-houses  swarmed  with  native  seamen,  and  the  shipping 
master  had  not  signed  on  a  white  sailor  in  so  long  that  he  had  concluded 
the  type  was  extinct.  I  drifted  away  into  the  bazaars  and,  turning 
up  at  the  association  building  at  nightfall,  retreated  to  a  veranda  of 
the  second  story  with  a  blanket  supplied  by  the  manager. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE     WAYS     OF     THE     HINDU 

IT  was  my  good  fortune  to  find  employment  the  next  morning. 
The  job  was  suggestive  of  the  spy  and  the  tattle-tale,  but 
the  most  indolent  of  vagabonds  could  not  have  dreamed  of  a 
more  ideal  means  of  amassing  a  fortune.  I  had  merely  to  sit  still  and 
do  nothing  —  and  draw  three  rupees  a  day  for  doing  it.  Almost  the 
only  condition  imposed  upon  me  was  that  the  sitting  must  be  done  on 
a  street  car. 

Let  me  explain.  The  electric  tramways  of  the  city  of  Madras  are 
numerous  and  well-patronized.  The  company  does  not  dare  to  en- 
trust the  position  on  the  front  platform  to  aborigines;  for  in  case  of 
emergency  the  Hindu  has  a  remarkable  faculty  of  being  anywhere  but 
at  his  post,  and  of  doing  anything  but  the  right  thing.  But  as  con- 
ductor, a  native  or  Eurasian  of  some  slight  education  does  as  well  as 
a  real  man.  He  has  only  to  poke  the  pice  and  annas  into  the  cash 
register  he  wears  about  his  neck  and  punch  and  deliver  a  ticket.  Yet 
it  is  surprising,  nay,  sad,  to  find  how  many  accidents  befall  him  while 
engaged  in  this  simple  task.  He  will  forget,  for  instance,  to  give  the 
passenger  the  ticket  that  is  his  receipt  for  fare  paid;  coppers  will 
cling  tenaciously  to  his  fingers  in  spite  of  his  best  efforts  to  dislodge 
them;  he  has  even  been  known,  in  his  absent-mindedness,  to  overlook 
his  friends  on  his  tour  of  collection  through  the  car.  Don't,  for  a 
moment,  fancy  that  he  is  dishonest.  It  is  merely  because  he  is  a 
Hindu  and  was  born  that  way. 

To  correct  these  unimportant  little  faults,  the  corporation  has  a 
force  of  inspectors,  occasionally  sahibs,  commonly  Eurasians,  clad  in 
khaki  uniforms  and  armed  with  report  pads,  who  spring  out  unex- 
pectedly from  obscure  side  streets  to  offer  expert  assistance  to  passing 
conductors. 

But,  of  course,  mathematical  experts  do  not  dodge  in  and  out  of 
the  sun-baked  alleyways  of  Madras  for  the  good  of  their  health. 
The  spirit  of  India  is  sure  to  attack  them  sooner  or  later,  even  if  it 
has  not  been  with  them  since  birth.     Cases  of  friendship  between  in- 

309 


J 


JmiL 


3IO      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

spectors  and  conductors  are  not  unknown,  and  it  is  not  the  way  of  the 
Oriental  to  attempt  to  reduce  his  friend's  income.  In  short,  the 
auditors  must  be  audited,  and,  all  unknown  to  them  or  its  other  serv- 
ants, the  corporation  employs  a  small  select  band  of  men  who  do 
not  wear  uniforms,  and  who  do  not  line  up  before  the  wicket  on 
pay  day. 

It  was  by  merest  chance  that  I  learned  of  this  state  of  affairs  and 
found  my  way  to  a  small  office  that  no  one  would  have  suspected  of 
being  in  any  way  connected  with  the  transportation  system  of  Madras. 
An  Englishman  who  was  ostensibly  a  private  broker  deemed  my 
answers  to  his  cross-examination  satisfactory,  and  I  was  initiated  at 
once  into  the  mysterious  masonry  of  inspector  of  inspectors.  The 
broker  warned  me  not  to  build  hopes  of  an  extended  engagement, 
rather  to  anticipate  an  early  dismissal ;  for  the  uniformed  employes 
were  famed  for  lynx-eyed  vigilance,  and  my  usefulness  to  the  company, 
obviously,  could  not  endure  beyond  the  few  days  that  might  elapse  be- 
fore I  was  "spotted."  He  did  not  add  that  a  longer  period  might  give 
me  opportunity  to  form  too  intimate  acquaintances,  but  he  wore  the 
air  of  a  man  who  had  not  exhausted  his  subject. 

My  duties  began  forthwith.  The  Englishman  supplied  me  with  a 
handful  of  coppers  that  were  to  return  to  the  corporation  through  its 
cash  registers.  I  was  to  board  a  tramway,  find  place  of  observation  in 
a  back  seat,  and  pay  my  fare  as  an  ordinary  passenger.  The  dis- 
tance I  should  travel  on  each  car,  the  routes  I  should  follow,  my 
changes  from  one  line  to  another,  were  left  to  my  own  discretion. 
Upon  alighting,  I  was  to  stroll  far  enough  away  from  the  line  to  allay 
suspicion  and  return  to  hail  another  car.  The  company  required  only 
that  I  make  out  each  evening,  in  the  private  office,  a  report  of  my 
observations,  with  the  numbers  of  the  cars,  and  sign  a  statement  to  the 
eflfect  that  I  had  devoted  the  eight  hours  to  the  interests  of  the  corpo- 
ration. What  could  have  been  more  entirely  mon  affaire?  If  there 
was  a  nook  or  corner  of  Madras  that  I  did  not  visit  during  the  few 
days  that  followed,  it  was  not  within  strolling  distance  of  any  street- 
car line. 

Among  the  sights  of  the  city  must  be  noted  her  human  bullocks. 
Horses  are.  rare  in  Madras.  The  transportation  of  freight  falls  to  a 
company  of  leather-skinned,  rice-fed  coolies  whose  strength  and  en- 
durance pass  belief.  Their  carts  are  massive,  two-wheeled  vehicles, 
as  cumbersome  as  ever  burdened  a  yoke  of  oxen.  The  virtues  of  axle- 
grease  they  know  not,  and  through  the  streets  of  Madras  resounds  a 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  311 

droning  as  of  the  Egyptian  sakkas  on  the  plain  of  Thebes.  Yet  two  of 
these  emaciated  creatures  will  drag  a  wagon,  laden  with  great  bales 
from  the  ships,  or  a  dozen  steel  rails,  for  miles  over  hills  and  hollows, 
with  fewer  breathing  spells  than  a  truckman  would  allow  a  team  of 
horses. 

My  devotion  to  corporate  interests  brought  me  the  surprise  supreme 
of  my  Oriental  wanderings.  At  the  corner  of  the  Maidan,  where  the 
tramway  swings  round  towards  the  harbor,  a  gang  of  coolies  was  re- 
airing  the  roadway.  That,  in  itself,  was  no  cause  for  wonder.  But 
among  the  workmen,  dressed  like  the  others  in  a  ragged  loin-cloth, 
swinging  his  rammer  as  stolidly,  gazing  as  abjectly  at  the  ground  as 
his  companions,  was  a  white  man !  .  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it. 
Under  the  tan  of  an  Indian  sun  his  skin  was  as  fair  as  a  Norseman's, 
his  shock  of  unkempt  hair  was  a  fiery  red,  and  his  eyes  were  blue! 
But  a  white  man  ramming  macadam!  A  sahib  so  unmindful  of  his 
high  origin  as  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  most  miserable,  the  most  de- 
based, the  most  abhorred  of  human  creatures!  To  become  a  sudra 
and  ram  macadam  in  the  pubHc  streets,  dressed  in  a  clout!  Here  was 
the  final,  lasciate  ogni  speranza  end.  A  terror  came  upon  me,  a  long- 
ing to  flee  while  yet  there  was  time,  from  the  blighted  land  in  which 
a  man  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood  could  fall  to  this. 

Again  and  again  my  rounds  of  the  city  brought  me  back  to  the 
corner  of  the  Maidan.  The  renegade  toiled  stolidly  on,  bending  de- 
jectedly over  his  task,  never  raising  his  head  to  glance  at  the  passing 
throng.  Twice  I  was  moved  to  alight  and  speak,  to  learn  his  dreadful 
story,  but  the  car  had  rumbled  on  before  I  gathered  courage.  Leav- 
ing the  broker's  office  as  twilight  fell,  I  passed  that  way  again.  A 
babu  loitering  on  the  curb  drew  me  into  conversation  and  I  put  a 
question  to  him. 

"What!  That?"  he  said,  following  the  direction  of  my  finger. 
"  Why,  that 's  a  Hindu  albino." 

I  turned  away  to  an  eating-shop,  the  proprietor  of  which  had  long 
since  alienated  his  fellow-countrymen  by  professing  conversion  to 
Christianity,  and  sat  down  for  supper.  It  was  the  official  "  bums'  re- 
treat "  of  Madras.  A  half-dozen  white  wanderers  were  gathered.  I 
looked  for  Marten  among  them ;  but  he  had  found  pleasure,  evidently, 
in  the  company  of  his  chocolate-colored  cousins,  and  when  the  last 
yam  was  spun  he  had  not  put  in  an  appearance.  I  stepped  out  again 
into  the  night  to  find  a  lodging. 

Had  I  imagined  that  I  alone,  of  all  Madras,  was  planning  to  sleep 


312      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

beneath  the  stars,  I  should  have  been  doomed  to  disappointment.     For 
an  hour  I  roamed  the  city,  seeking  a  bit  of  open  space.     If  there  was  j 
a  passageway  or  a  platebande  too  small  to  accommodate  a  coolie  or  a  \ 
street  urchin,  it  was  occupied  by  a  mongrel  cur.     The  night  was  black.  ^ 
There  was  danger  of  running  upon  some  huddled  family  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  pollution  of  touch  might  prove  mutual.     I  left  the  close- 
packed  town  behind  and  struck  off  across  the  Maidan.     Here  was 
room  and  to  spare ;  but  the  law  forbade,  and  if  officers  did  not  enforce 
the  ordinance,  sneak  thieves  did  —  Hindu  thieves  who  can  travel  on 
their  bellies  faster  than  an  honest  man  can  walk,  making  less  noise  than  ' 
the  gentle  southern  breeze,  and  steal  the  teeth  from  a  sleeper's  mouth 
and  the  eyes  from  under  his  lids  ere  he  wakes.     I  kept  on,  stumbling 
over  a  knoll  now  and  then,  falling  flat  in  a  dry  ditch,  and  fetching  up 
against  a  fence.     Groping  along  it,  I  came  upon  the  highway  that  leads 
southward  along  the  shore  of  the  sea.     A  furlong  beyond  was  a  grove 
of  high  trees,  with  wide-spreading  branches,  like  the  pine ;  and  beneath 
them  soft  beach  sand.     I  halted  there.     A  landward  breeze  had  tem- 
pered the  oppressive  heat;  the  boughs  above  whispered  hoarsely  to- 
gether.    At  regular  intervals  through  the  night,  the  sepulchral  voice  of 
the  Bay  of  Bengal  spoke  faintly  across  the  barren  strand. 

When  I  awoke,  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  Sunday.  The  day  of  rest 
brings  small  change  to  the  teeming  hordes  of  India,  but  conductors 
and  inspectors  were  permitted  to  whisper  together  unobserved,  and 
I  took  advantage  of  the  holiday  to  put  my  wardrobe  in  the  hands  of  a 
dhoby.  A  dhoby,  in  any  language  but  Hindustanee,  is  a  laundryman. 
But  the  word  fails  dismally  as  a  translation.  Within  those  two 
syllables  lurks  a  volume  of  meaning  to  the  sahib  who  has  dwelt 
in  the  land  of  India.  The  editors  of  Anglo-Indian  newspapers,  who 
may  only  write  and  endure,  are  undecided  whether  to  style  him  a 
fiend  or  a  raving  maniac.  Youthful  philosophers  and  poets,  grown 
eloquent  under  the  inspiration  of  a  newly  returned  basket,  fill  more 
columns  than  the  reporter  of  the  viceroy's  council. 

For  the  dhoby  is  a  man  of  energy.  High  above  his  head,  like  a 
flail,  he  swings  each  streaming  garment  and  brings  it  down  on  his 
flat  stone  as  if  his  principal  desire  in  life  were  to  split  it  to  bits.  Not 
once,  but  as  long  as  strength  endures,  and  when  he  can  swing  no  more 
he  flings  down  the  tog  and  jumps  fiendishly  upon  it.  His  bare  feet 
tread  a  wild  Terpsichorean  orgie,  and  when  he  can  dance  no  longer  he 
falls  upon  the  unoffending  rag  and  tugs  and  strains  and  twists  and 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  313 

pulls,  as  though  determined  that  it  shall  come  to  be  washed  no  more. 
Flying  buttons  are  his  glee.  If  he  can  reduce  the  garment  to  the 
component  parts  in  which  the  maker  cut  it,  his  joy  is  complete.  When 
the  power  to  beat  and  tramp  and  tug  fails  him,  he  tosses  the  shreds 
disdainfully  into  the  stream  or  cistern  and  attacks  the  wardrobe  of 
another  helpless  client.  Yet  he  is  strictly  honest.  At  nightfall  he 
bears  back  to  its  owner  the  dirt  he  carried  away,  and  the  threads  that 
hold  it  together.  When  all  other  words  of  vituperation  seem  weak 
and  insipid,  the  Anglo-Indian  calls  his  enemy  a  dhoby. 

The  cook  of  the  rendezvous  offered,  for  three  annas,  to  wash  all 
that  I  owned,  save  my  shoes  and  the  inner  workings  of  my  pith  hel- 
met. In  a  more  commonplace  land  the  possessor  of  a  single  suit 
would  have  been  bedridden  until  the  task  was  done.  But  not  in  India. 
A  large  handkerchief  was  ample  attire  within  the  "  bums'  retreat." 
The  beachcombers  gathered  in  the  dining-room  saw  in  the  costume 
cause  for  envy,  not  ridicule;  for  few  could  boast  of  as  much  when 
wash-day  came  for  them,  and  the  hours  that  might  have  been  spent 
under  sheets  and  blankets  in  a  sterner  clime  passed  quickly  in  the 
writing  of  letters. 

From  the  back  yard,  for  a  time,  came  the  shrieks  of  maltreated 
garments.  Then  all  fell  silent.  In  fear  and  trembling,  I  ventured 
forth  to  take  inventory  of  my  indispensable  raiment.  But  as  a  dhoby 
the  cook  was  a  bungler.  There  were  a  few  rents  in  the  gear  arrayed 
on  the  eaves  gutter,  a  button  was  missing  here  and  there,  and  there  was 
no  evidence  of  snowy  whiteness.  But  every  garment  could  still  be 
easily  identified,  and  an  hour  with  a  ship's  needle,  when  the  blazing 
sun  had  done  its  work,  sufficed  to  heal  the  wounds,  though  not  the 
scars,  of  combat. 

Not  a  word  of  Haywood  had  reached  me  since  the  police  station  had 
swallowed  him  up.  Evidently  he  was  still  forcibly  separated  from 
society;  but  had  he  escaped  with  a  light  sentence  or  fallen  victim  to 
"five  years  of  the  lock-step?"  When  my  Monday  report  had  been 
filed,  I  set  out  to  find  the  answer  to  that  question.  Such  cases,  they 
told  me,  were  tried  at  a  court  in  a  distant  section  of  the  city.  Its 
officials  knew  nothing  of  the  New  Yorker  however,  and  I  tramped  to 
the  suburban  station  where  the  "  crime  "  had  been  committed.  Inquiry 
seemed  futile.  The  vendor  was  there,  as  blithesome  as  ever,  and  his 
bananas  were  hoary  with  age,  but  the  fourteen  words  of  Hindustanee 
I  had  picked  up  were  those  he  did  not  know.     The  policeman  on  the 


314      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

platform  had  heard  some  discussion  of  the  case,  but  had  no  definite 
information  to  offer.  Then  came  the  rehef  squad,  and  the  officer  who 
had  made  the  arrest  directed  me  to  another  distant  court. 

There  were  several  buildings  of  judicial  aspect  scattered  over  the 
great  campus,  but  they  were  closed  for  the  night.  The  door  of  a  hut, 
such  as  servants  dwell  in,  stood  ajar,  and  I  entered.  A  high-caste 
native  was  gathering  together  books  and  papers  from  the  desk  of  a 
miniature  court  room.     I  made  known  my  errand. 

"  Haywood  ?  "  answered  the  Hindu,  "  Ah !  Yes,  I  know  about  him. 
I  know  all  about  him,  for  he  was  tried  before  me." 

The  New  Yorker  had  swallowed  his  pride,  indeed,  to  consent  to 
being  tried  by  a  "  nigger  "  rather  than  to  come  into  contact  with  white 
officers. 

"  And  what  did  you  hand  him  ?  "  I  ventured. 

The  justice,  striving  to  appear  at  ease  in  a  pompous  dignity  that  was 
as  much  too  large  for  him  as  the  enormous  blue  and  white  turban 
that  bellied  out  above  his  thin  face  like  an  unreefed  mainsail  in  a  stiff 
breeze,  chose  a  ledger  from  the  desk  and  turned  over  the  leaves. 

"  Ah,  here  it  is,"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  out  an  entry ;  "  Richard 
Haywood,  Englishman.  Charge,  assault.  Found  in  his  possession, 
four  annas,  three  pice,  one  pocketknife,  one  pipe,  three  cigarettes, 
two  buttons."  They  were  nothing  if  not  exact,  but  they  had  over- 
looked one  of  the  uses  of  the  bands  on  pith  helmets.  "  Plea,  guilty. 
Sentence,  five  rupees  fine.  Prisoner  alleging  indigence,  sentence  was 
changed  to  one  week  in  the  Presidency  jail." 

"  Suppose  I  pay  his  fine  ?  "  I  asked.     "  Will  he  be  released  at  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  the  case  has  passed  out  of  my  jurisdiction.  You  must  pay 
it  to  the  warden." 

No  sojourner  in  Madras  need  make  inquiry  for  the  great  white 
building  that  houses  her  felons.  I  reached  it  in  time  to  find  the 
massive  gate  still  unlocked  and  gained  admittance  to  the  warden's 
office.  He  denied  my  request  for  an  interview  with  Haywood,  how- 
ever, on  the  ground  that  prisoners  for  so  brief  a  period  were  not  al- 
lowed visitors.  I  opened  my  mouth  to  mention  the  fine,  then  stopped. 
Perhaps  the  New  Yorker  had  some  secret  reason  for  choosing  to 
swelter  seven  days  in  an  Indian  prison.  If  he  was  anxious  to  be  free, 
he  had  only  to  take  down  his  hat  and,  like  the  magician,  produce  from 
it  the  money  that  would  set  him  at  liberty.  I  resolved  to  run  no  risk 
of  upsetting  subtle  plans,  and  turned  back  into  the  city. 

Two  days  later,  the  broker  confided  to  me  the  sad  news  that  I 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  315 

had  been  "  spotted."  Marten,  who  had  joined  me  in  the  grove  lodging, 
the  night  before,  proposed  to  apply  at  once  to  the  secretary  of  the 
Friend-in-Need  Society  for  a  ticket  northward.  Eager  to  investigate 
the  Home  which  the  society  operates  in  Madras,  I  accompanied  him. 
The  secretary  was  an  English  magistrate  who  held  court  in  a  building 
facing  the  harbor.  The  court  room  was  crowded  to  suffocation. 
While  we  waited  for  the  native  policeman  to  return  with  an  answer 
to  our  note  I  caught  enough  of  the  interpreter's  words  to  learn  that 
the  perspiring  Briton  under  the  punkahs  was  weighing  the  momentous 
question  of  the  damages  due  a  shopkeeper  for  temporary  loss  of  caste. 

The  attache,  after  long  absence,  brought  the  information  that  the 
trial  was  at  its  climax  and  that  he  dared  not  disturb  proceedings.  But 
Marten,  familiar  with  the  "  ropes  "  of  official  India,  snorted  in  dis- 
gust and  led  the  way  down  a  passage  that  brought  us  to  an  anteroom 
behind  the  judgment  seat.  Beckoning  to  me  to  follow,  he  pushed 
aside  the  officers  who  would  have  barred  our  progress,  and  marched 
boldly  into  the  court  room,  halting  before  the  stenographer's  table.  I 
anticipated  immediate  imprisonment  for  contempt  of  court;  but  the 
magistrate,  eager,  as  who  would  not  have  been,  for  a  moment's  relief 
from  native  hair-splitting,  signed  to  the  interpreter  to  stay  the  case, 
and,  sliding  down  in  his  dais  until  he  was  all  but  lying  on  his  back, 
bade  us  step  up  beside  him.  Marten,  who  had  transferred  to  Cal- 
cutta the  phantom  ship  he  was  pursuing,  applied  for  a  through  ticket ; 
I,  for  admission  to  the  Society  Home. 

"  I  '11  give  you  both  a  chit  to  the  manager  for  to-night,"  said  the 
justice,  when  we  had  spun  our  yarns.  "  The  Home  is  rather  over- 
crowded, but  we  always  try  to  find  a  place  for  Englishmen,  even  if  we 
can't  accommodate  all  the  Germans,  Italians,  and  Turks  that  turn  up." 

"  But  we  're  not  Englishmen,"  I  put  in. 

"  Nonsense,"  yawned  the  judge.  "  When  I  say  Englishmen  of 
course  I  include  Americans,  but  as  to  you  " —  he  turned  to  Marten  — 
"  I  can't  give  you  a  ticket  to  Calcutta.  That 's  more  than  a  thousand 
miles.  I  '11  have  the  manager  ship  you  to  Vizagapatam  in  the  morning. 
That  is  half  way,  and  the  commissioner  there  will  send  you  on." 

He  made  out  the  notes  and  we  departed.  As  we  passed  the  street 
entrance,  the  corpulent  babu  was  again  pouring  forth  the  woes  of  the 
pollute^  plaintiff. 

But  for  a  sign  over  the  entrance,  the  Home  might  have  been 
taken  for  the  estate  of  an  English  gentleman  of  modest  income.  The 
grounds  were  extensive  and  well-wooded.     The  gate  was  guarded  by  a 


3i6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

lodge,  beyond  which  the  Home  itself,  a  low,  rambling  bungalow,  peeped 
through  the  trees.  A  score  of  vagabonds,  burned  brown  in  face  and 
garb,  loitered  in  the  shade  along  the  curb.  Half  were  Eurasians. 
There  is  no  more  irreclaimable  vagrant  under  the  sun's  rays  than 
the  tropical  half-breed  when  once  he  joins  the  fraternity  of  the  Great 
Unwashed.  Reputation  or  personal  appearance  are  to  him  matters 
of  utter  indifference.  A  threadbare  jacket  and  trousers  —  sad  com- 
mentaries of  the  willfulness  of  the  dhoby  —  mark  his  social  superiority 
to  the  coolie;  but  he  goes  barefooted  by  choice,  often  bareheaded, 
and  in  his  abhorrence  of  unnecessary  activity  is  as  truly  a  Hindu  as  his 
maternal  ancestor.  Like  the  native,  too,  he  is  indifferent  to  bodily 
affliction  —  so  it  bring  no  pain  —  and  laughs  at  encroaching  diseavSe  as 
though  he  shared  with  the  Brahmin  the  conviction  that  his  present 
form  is  only  one  of  hundreds  that  he  will  inhabit. 

At  our  arrival  a  youth  of  this  class  was  entertaining  the  assembled 
wanderers  with  a  spicy  tale.  His  language  was  the  lazy,  half -enun- 
ciated English  of  the  tropical  hybrid,  and  he  chuckled  with  glee  as 
often  as  his  companions.  Yet  he  was  a  victim  of  the  dread  "  elephan- 
tiasis "  so  common  among  natives.  His  left  foot  and  leg  below  the 
knee  were  swollen  to  four  times  their  natural  size,  and  to  accommodate 
the  abnormal  limb  his  trouser  leg  was  split  to  the  thigh.  As  the  gate 
opened,  he  rose  and  dragged  his  incurable  affliction  with  him,  leaving 
in  the  sand  footprints  like  the  nest  of  a  mongrel  cur. 

The  manager  was  a  bullet-headed  Irishman,  chosen,  like  many  an- 
other, for  his  knowledge  of  the  wily  ways  of  the  vagrant,  gleaned  in 
many  a  year  "  on  the  road."  The  Home,  though  more  ambitious  in  its 
scope,  resembled  the  Asile  Rudolph  of  Cairo.  The  meals,  consisting 
of  native  food,  were  served  in  the  same  generous  portions,  and  the  cots, 
in  spite  of  the  unconventional  habits  of  the  inmates,  were  as  scrupulously 
clean.  Adjoining  the  quarters  of  the  transient  guests,  the  society  pro- 
vided a  permanent  home  for  aged  and  crippled  beachcombers.  We 
sat  late  under  the  veranda,  listening  to  strange  tales  of  the  road  of 
earlier  days  from  a  score  of  old  cronies  who  quarreled  for  a  pinch  of 
tobacco  and  wept  when  their  words  were  discredited.  Sad  fate,  in- 
deed, for  those  who,  in  the  years  of  their  strength  and  inspiration,  had 
made  the  world  their  playground,  to  be  sentenced  thus  to  end  their 
days  in  the  meager  bit  of  space  to  which  sightless  eyes  or  paralyzed 
limbs  confined  them,  while  they  wandered  on  in  spirit  over  boundless 
seas  and  trackless  land. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  manager  led  the  way  to  the  Beach  station 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  317 

antl,  having  supplied  Marten  with  a  ticket  to  Vizagapatam  and  a  day's 
"  batter,"  bade  us  bon  voyage.  The  journey  was  long;  it  might  also 
have  been  uneventful  but  for  my  companion's  incorrigible  longing  to 
annoy  his  fellow-beings.  The  weak  point  in  Marten's  make-up  was 
his  head.  Years  before,  during  his  days  before  the  mast,  he  had  gone 
ashore  in  a  disreputable  port  after  paying  off  from  a  voyage  of  several 
months'  duration  and,  overladen  with  good  cheer,  had  been  so  suc- 
cessfully sand-bagged  that  he  not  only  lost  his  earnings  but  emerged 
from  the  encounter  with  a  broken  head.  At  the  hospital  it  was  found 
necessary  to  trepan  his  skull.  But  the  metal  plate  had  proved  a  poor 
substitute  for  sound  bone;  and  the  ex-pearl-fisher  was  wont  to  warn 
every  new  acquaintance  to  beware  "  horse-play,"  as  a  blow  on  the 
head  might  result  in  serious  injury. 

The  favorite  occupation  of  the  Hindu  on  his  travels  is  sleeping.  If 
there  is  an  alien  voyager  in  his  compartment  he  sits  stiffly  in  his  place, 
on  guard  against  a  loss  of  caste.  When  his  companions  are  all  of  his 
own  class,  he  stretches  out  on  his  back  and  slumbers,  open-mouthed, 
like  a  dead  fish.  But  the  benches  are  short.  The  native,  therefore, 
seeks  relief  by  sticking  his  feet  out  the  window.  An  Indian  train 
bristles  from  engine  to  guard-van  with  bare,  brown  legs  that  give  it  the 
aspect  of  a  battery  of  small  guns. 

Our  express  had  halted,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  switch  beside  a 
train  southward  bound.  Marten,  chancing  to  have  a  straw  in  his 
possession,  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  fell  to  tickling  the  soles  of  a 
pair  of  protruding  feet.  Their  owner  was  a  sound  sleeper.  For  sev- 
eral moments  he  did  not  stir.  As  our  train  started,  he  awoke  suddenly 
and  sprang  up  with  so  startling  a  whoop  that  my  companion  recoiled  in 
surprise  and  struck  his  head  sharply  on  the  top  of  the  window. 

The  native  was  quickly  avenged.  For  a  moment  his  tormentor  clung 
to  the  casement,  straining  in  every  limb,  then  fell  to  the  floor,  writhing 
in  agony.  Plainly  he  had  lost  consciousness,  but  he  thrashed  about 
the  compartment  like  a  captive  boa  constrictor,  twisting  body  and  limbs 
in  racking  contortions,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth  until  his  ashy  face 
was  covered  with  spume,  and  dirt  from  the  floor.  His  strength  was 
supernatural.  To  attempt  to  control  him  was  useless, —  forbidden,  in 
fact,  on  the  day  that  he  had  warned  me  of  his  injury.  I  took  refuge 
on  one  of  the  benches  to  escape  his  convulsions. 

The  express  sped  on  in  the  falling  darkness.  The  next  station  was 
far  distant.  Before  me  rose  a  vision  of  myself  surrounded  by  stern 
officials  and  attempting  in  vain  to  explain  the  presence  of  a  corpse  in 


3i8      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

my  compartment.  Foolhardy,  indeed,  had  I  been  to  choose  such  a 
companion. 

For  a  long  hour  his  fit  continued.  Then  the  contortions  of  his  body 
diminished  little  by  little;  his  arms  and  legs  twitched  spasmodically  in 
lessening  jerks ;  his  eyes,  glassy  and  bloodshot,  opened  for  a  moment, 
closed  again,  and  he  lay  still.  Through  the  interminable  night  he 
stretched  prone  on  the  floor,  motionless  as  a  cadaver.  When  morning 
broke  in  the  east  he  sat  up  suddenly  with  a  jest  on  his  lips  and  none 
the  worse,  apparently,  for  his  ravings.  But  his  memory  retained  no 
record  of  occurrences  from  the  moment  when  the  wild  shout  of  the 
Hindu  had  sounded  in  his  ears  three  hundred  miles  away. 

An  hour  later  we  were  purchasing  sweetmeats  in  the  bazaars  of 
Vizagapatam.  The  flat,  sun-baked  fields  of  southern  India  had  been 
left  behind.  The  surrounding  country  was  hilly  and  verdant;  to  the 
eastward  stretched  the  blue  bay  of  Bengal.  In  the  offing  a  ship  lay 
at  anchor.  Naked  coolies,  bent  double  under  bales  and  bundles,  waded 
waist-deep  into  the  sea  and  cast  their  burdens  into  a  lighter.  Adjoin- 
ing the  bazaars,  a  sudra  village  of  inhabited  haycocks  huddled  together 
in  a  valley.  Before  the  huts  men,  women,  and  children  crouched  on 
their  haunches  in  the  dust,  their  cadaverous  knees  on  a  level  with  their 
sunken  eyes,  their  fleshless  talons  clawing  at  scraps  of  half-putrid  food. 
Now  and  again  they  snarled  at  each  other.  More  often  they  stared 
away  as  vacantly  as  ruminating  animals  at  the  vista  of  squalor  beyond. 
Beside  the  village  rose  a  barren  rock,  monument  to  the  medley  of  re- 
ligions that  inflict  India.  On  its  summit,  within  a  space  of  little  more 
than  an  acre,  commanding  an  outlook  far  out  over  the  sea,  stood  a 
Brahmin  temple,  a  Mohammedan  mosque,  and  a  Christian  church, 
each  reached  by  its  own  stairway  cut  in  the  perpendicular  face  of 
the  rock. 

Several  miles  separated  the  sudra  village  from  'the  government 
buildings.  On  the  way  native  policemen  and  soldiers  drew  up  at  atten- 
tion and  saluted  as  we  passed.  An  entire  squad,  loitering  before  the 
central  station,  fell  quickly  into  ranks  and  stood  stiffly  at  present-arms 
as  long  as  we  remained  in  sight.  In  this  English-governed  land,  the 
native  sees  in  every  sahib  a  possible  superior  officer  to  whom  it  is 
safest  to  be  deferential. 

We  reached  in  due  time  the  commissioner's  office.  His  only  repre- 
sentative in  the  deserted  bureaus  was  an  emaciated  punkah-wallah, 
turned  watchman,  who  bowed  his  head  in  the  dust  before  the  door  as 
Marten  addressed  him. 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  319 

"  Nay,  sahibs,"  he  murmured,  "  the  commissioner  sahib  and  the 
ittle  commissioners  are  absent,  protectors  of  the  miserable.  To-day 
s  the  Brahmin  new  year  " —  it  was  April  thirteenth  — "  oh,  charitable 
one,  and  a  holiday.  The  sahibs  may  come  to-morrow.  But  nay  1  To- 
morrow is  a  feast  of  the  Mohammedans  and  a  holiday  also." 

"  And  the  next  day  is  Sunday,"  I  put  in,  when  Marten  had  inter- 
preted. 

"  The  commissioner's  bungalow  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  In  the  forest  beyond  the  hills,"  murmured  the  coolie,  pointing 
northward.     "  Two  cigarettes  distant,  oh,  greatest  of  sahibs." 

To  the  grief  of  many  a  peregrinating  beachcomber,  the  "  appear- 
ances "  of  the  British  governors  of  India  are  as  rare  as  those  of  world- 
famed  tenors.  We  continued  along  a  shimmering  highway,  winding 
among  trees,  the  dense  shadows  of  which  gave  our  eyes  occasional  re- 
lief, and  a  mile  beyond  found  the  commissioner  at  home.  Marten 
gained  a  hearing  and  emerged  with  a  note  to  the  assistant  commis- 
sioner. Once  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  Oriental  red-tape,  there  was 
no  escape;  and  from  midday  till  late  afternoon  we  raced  back  and 
forth  through  the  streets  and  byways  of  Vizagapatam,  and  routed  out 
no  fewer  than  twelve  Hindu  officials  from  their  holiday  siestas.  Even 
then  my  companion  won  a  ticket  only  halfway  to  the  city  on  the 
Hoogly. 

We  caught  the  night  express  and  reached  Berhampore  next  morn- 
ing. At  his  bungalow,  a  youthful  commissioner  was  so  moved  by 
Marten's  account  of  the  loss  of  his  phantom  ship  —  the  story  had 
lost  nothing  in  frequent  repetitions  —  that  he  waived  all  legal  for- 
malities and  gave  him  an  order  on  the  station  master  for  a  ticket 
to  his  destination.  Had  he  followed  the  movements  of  the  abandoned 
seaman  for  the  rest  of  the  day  he  might  have  listened  skeptically  to  the 
tale  of  the  next  wanderer  to  seek  his  assistance. 

On  the  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal,  some  two  hundred  miles  south 
of  the  capital  and  a  day's  tramp  from  the  main  line,  lies  Puri,  the  city 
of  Juggernaut,  I  should  have  visited  it  alone  had  not  Marten,  utterly 
indifferent  to  the  suspense  of  his  grieving  shipmates,  insisted  on  ac- 
companying me. 

We  alighted  at  Khurda  Road  and  purchased  tickets  to  the  sacred 
city  at  a  price  that  could  scarcely  have  covered  the  cost  of  printing. 
A  train  of  unusual  length  for  a  branch  line  was  already  so  densely 
packed  with  pilgrims  that  those  who  tumbled  out  of  the  compartment 
which  the  station  master  chose  to  assign  us  were  in  imminent  danger 


320     A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

of  being  left  behind.  Iron-voiced  vendors  danced  about  the  platform. 
Their  wares  were  the  usual  greasy  sweets,  doughy  bread-sheets  and 
curried  potatoes  that  had  been  our  fare  for  long  days  past.  But  this 
was  **  holy  food,"  prepared  by  the  priests  of  the  hallowed  city ;  for  the 
Hindu  on  his  pilgrimages  to  a  sacred  shrine  may  not  eat  of  worldly 
viands.  For  all  that  the  hawkers  sold  to  us  gladly,  not  abating,  how- 
ever, by  a  copper,  the  exorbitant  prices  to  which  their  monopoly  and 
the  superstitions  of  their  regular  customers  entitled  them. 

Night  was  falling  when  we  descended  at  Puri.  The  station,  as  part 
of  a  system  abhorred  of  the  gods  of  Hind,  stood  in  the  open  country, 
a  full  two  miles  from  the  sacred  city.  Not  even  the  inhabitants  of 
Benares  are  more  fanatical  than  those  of  Puri.  Natives  coming  upon 
us  in  the  darkness  along  the  road  of  sacrifice  sprang  aside  in  terror, 
and  shrieked  a  long-drawn  "  sahib  hai !  "  to  warn  others  to  beware  our 
polluting  touch.  In  the  bazaars,  many  a  merchant  cried  out  in  anger 
when  we  approached  his  tumble-down  shop;  and  only  with  much 
wheedling  could  we  draw  one  of  them  forth  into  the  street  to  sell  us 
sweetmeats  and  fruits.  Half  the  shacks  were  devoted  to  the  sale  of 
dude,  which  is  to  say,  milk  —  of  bullocks  and  goats,  of  course,  for  the 
udders  of  the  sacred  cow  may  not  be  violated.  We  paused  at  one  to 
purchase.  A  vicious-faced  youth  took  our  pice  gingerly  and  filled 
two  vessels  much  like  flowerpots.  I  emptied  my  own  and  stepped  for- 
ward to  replace  it  on  the  worm-eaten  board  that  served  as  counter. 
The  youth  sprang  at  me  with  a  scream  of  rage  and  fear,  and,  before 
the  pot  had  touched  the  counter.  Marten  knocked  it  out  of  my  hand 
and  shattered  it  to  bits  on  the  cobblestones,  then  smashed  his  own  be- 
side it.  The  two  pice  I  had  paid  for  the  milk  included  the  price  of 
the  vessel,  great  quantities  of  which  are  made  of  the  red  clay  of  neigh- 
boring pits.  The  crash  of  pottery  that  startled  the  silence  of  the  night 
at  frequent  intervals  were  signs,  not  of  some  sad  accident,  as  I  had  sup- 
posed, but  that  a  drinker  had  finished  his  dude.  The  miserable,  un- 
even streets  were  paved  in  fragments  of  broken  pots. 

There  was  not  a  native  hut  in  Puri  that  we  could  enter,  much  less 
sleep  in,  and,  our  evening  meal  finished  en  marche,  we  returned  to  the 
station  and  asked  permission  of  the  Eurasian  agent  to  occupy  two  of 
the  wicker  chairs  in  the  waiting-room.  He  refused,  not  only  because 
it  was  against  the  rules,  which  did  n't  matter,  but  because  he  was  sure 
to  be  found  out  if  he  disobeyed  them.  He  knew  of  better  quarters, 
however,  and  directed  us  accordingly.  We  stumbled  off  through  the 
railway  yards  and  came  upon  the  first-class  coach  he  had  mentioned, 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  321 

on  a  deserted  side  track.  It  was  the  best  "  hotel "  of  our  Indian  trip. 
The  car  was  built  on  the  lines  of  the  American  Pullman,  with  great 
couches  upholstered  in  soft  leather.  There  were  burnished  lamps  that 
we  could  light  with  impunity  when  the  heavy  curtains  had  been  drawn, 
several  large  mirrors,  and  running  water.  Small  wonder  if  we  slept 
late  next  morning  and  found  it  necessary  to  reconnoiter  a  bit,  for  the 
sake  of  the  station  master's  reputation,  before  making  our  exit.   • 

The  inventive  genius  of  the  Hindu  has  bedecked  the  dwelling  of  god 
Juggernaut  with  that  extravagance  of  barbaric  splendor  beloved  of  the 
Oriental.  Admittance  is  denied  the  sahib,  but  without  is  much  to  be 
seen.  The  temple  rises  in  seven  domes,  one  above  each  of  four  stone 
stairways  deep-worn  by  centuries  of  pilgrim  feet  and  knees,  and  three 
within  the  crumbling,  time-eaten  wall.  They  are  domes,  though,  only 
in  general  outline.  The  Hindu  strives  for  bizarre  effects  in  his  archi- 
tecture; he  dreads,  above  all,  plain  surfaces.  The  smaller  domes  rise 
en  perron  like  the  terraced  vineyards  of  the  Alps,  the  steps  half  hidden 
under  glittering  ornamentations, —  hideous-faced  gods  of  many  arms, 
repulsive  distortions  of  sacred  animals,  haggard,  misshapen  gar- 
goyles. Above  them  towers  Juggernaut's  throne  room,  resembling  a 
cucumber  stood  on  end  and  suggesting  that  its  builder,  starting  with 
the  dome  as  his  original  conception,  was  loath  to  bring  his  creation  to 
completion,  and  pushed  his  walls  onward  and  upward  to  a  dizzy  height, 
to  end  at  last  abruptly  in  a  flat  cupola.  Mayhap  his  despotic  master 
had  doomed  him  to  that  fate  which  has  so  often  befallen  successful 
architects  in  the  Orient,  of  losing  his  hands  when  his  masterpiece  was 
completed. 

Everywhere  the  temple  bears  witness  to  the  ravages  of  time.  The 
splendors  of  earlier  days  are  faded  and  crumbHng;  there  hovers  over 
all  not  so  much  an  air  of  neglect  as  of  the  inability  of  these  groveling, 
British-ruled  descendants  of  the  talented  creators  to  arrest  the  decay, 
an  acknowledgment  that  the  days  of  such  constructions  and  the  Hin- 
dus of  such  days  are  passe. 

Pilgrims  swarm  in  Purl  at  all  seasons.  Our  way  through  the  narrow 
streets  was  often  barred  by  shrieking  processions;  a  hundred  pious 
families  had  pitched  their  tents  at  the  edge  of  the  great  road.  But  it 
is  in  the  month  of  July,  when  the  bloodthirsty  god  makes  his  annual 
excursion  to  a  smaller  temple  two  miles  distant,  that  untold  multitudes 
pour  in  upon  the  wretched  hamlet.  The  car,  weighing  many  tons,  is 
set  up  outside  the  temple,  and  Juggernaut,  amid  the  clamor  of  bar- 
baric rites,  is  placed  on  his  throne  therein.     Hordes  of  natives  eager  to 


322      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  acquire  merit  "  surge  round  the  chariot,  screaming  and  struggling 
in  the  frenzy  of  fanaticism  for  a  place  at  the  long  ropes,  and,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  weird  incantations,  the  procession  starts.  The  great 
road,  scene  in  bygone  centuries  of  uncounted  human  sacrifices,  stretches 
away  straight  and  level  to  the  smaller  temple.  It  Is  the  most  generous 
roadway  in  India,  fully  a  furlong  wide,  in  reality  a  great  plain,  covered 
with  withered  grass  where  the  tfamp  of  many  feet  has  not  worn  it 
bare.  A  thousand  naked  bodies,  burnished  by  the  blazing  sunlight, 
strain  like  demons  at  the  ropes.  As  one  falls,  a  hundred  others  surge 
forward  to  fight  for  his  place.  The  aged  peasant  to  whom  this  pil- 
grimage has  dissipated  the  meager  earnings  of  a  lifetime,  returns  to 
his  native  village  with  inner  assurance  of  the  favor  of  the  gods  in  his 
next  existence  if  he  can  force  his  way  through  the  rabble  for  one  weak 
tug. 

But  the  ponderous  car  moves  slowly.  A  scanty  rice  diet  is  not  con- 
ducive to  great  physical  strength,  and  the  massive  wheels  cut  deep  into 
the  sandy  plain.  The  ruts  of  the  last  journey,  made  nine  months 
before,  were  by  no  means  obliterated  at  the  time  of  our  visit.  Short 
as  is  the  distance  between  the  two  temples,  the  passing  oftentimes  en- 
dures a  week ;  and  the  struggle  for  places  decreases  day  by  day  as  those 
who  have  performed  their  act  of  devotion  turn  homeward.  The  last 
fanatics  drop  out  one  by  one.  The  ropes  lose  their  tautness  and  sag 
of  their  own  weight.  A  scanty  remnant  of  the  multitude  gives  a  few 
"  dry  pulls  " ;  and  the  grim-visaged  god  completes  his  journey  behind 
bands  of  coolies  hired  for  the  occasion. 

They  sacrifice  no  more  to  Juggernaut.  John  Bull  has  scowled  on 
the  custom.  But  the  American  superintendent  of  the  mission  hospital 
among  the  trees  at  the  roadside  bore  witness  that  the  insatiate  monster 
has  still  a  goodly  quota  of  victims ;  for  annually  the  plague  breaks  out 
among  the  superstitious,  devitalized  pilgrims  and  leaves  hundreds  to 
die  on  the  flat,  sandy  coast  like  fish  tossed  ashore. 

He  who  has  journeyed  through  this  strange  land  will  be  slow  ever 
after  to  look  upon  animals  as  devoid  of  intelligence  and  the  power  to 
reason.  Encircling  the  temple,  we  chanced  upon  one  of  her  sacred 
bulls  setting  forth  on  his  morning  rounds  through  the  thatch-roofed 
bazaars  that  make  up  the  town  of  Puri.  He  was  a  sleek,  plump  beast, 
with  short,  stumpy  horns  and  a  hump,  as  harmless,  apparently,  as  a 
child's  pet  poodle.  We  kept  him  company,  for,  strange  to  say,  the 
fanatics,  who  had  all  but  mobbed  us  for  setting  foot  on  the  flagging 
before  a  temple  gate,  offered  no  protest  when  we  petted  this  most 


The  main  entrance  to  Juggernaut's  temple  in   Puri.     I   was  mobbed  for 
stepping  on  the  flagging  around  the  column 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  323 

reverenced  of  animals.  He  was  too  near  the  gods  no  doubt  to  be 
polluted  even  by  a  sahib  touch. 

Setting  a  course  for  the  nearest  shop,  he  advanced  with  dignified 
tread,  shouldering  his  way  through  the  multitude,  pushing  aside  all 
who  stood  in  his  path,  not  rudely,  but  firmly,  something  almost  human 
in  his  manner,  of  waywardness,  self-complacency,  and  arrogance.  The 
impoverished  descendants  of  an  ancient  house  would  have  marched 
with  that  stately  air  of  superiority,  the  son  of  a  nouveau  riche  with 
that  attitude  of  primary  proprietorship  in  the  world  and  its  goods. 
Native  reverence  for  the  animal  was  little  short  of  disgusting.  Pil- 
L^rims  prostrated  themselves  before  him;  hawkers  stepped  aside  with 
muttered  prayers ;  scores  of  women  fell  on  their  knees  and  elbows  in 
the  teeming  streets,  bowed  their  heads  low  in  the  dust,  and  ran  to  kiss 
his  flanks. 

Marching  boldly  up  to  the  first  booth,  the  bull  chose  a  morsel  of 
green  stuflf  from  the  inclined  platform,  and,  chewing  it  leisurely  after 
the  manner  of  an  epicure,  strolled  on  to  the  next  stall.  In  the  days 
of  his  novitiate,  'tis  said,  the  sacred  calf  eats  his  fill  of  the  first  food 
he  comes  upon.  A  few  weeks  of  experience,  however,  make  him  dis- 
criminating in  his  tastes.  Through  the  long  rows  of  shops  the  beast 
levied  on  all,  stopping  longest  where  the  supplies  were  freshest,  and 
awaking  a  mild  protest  from  the  keeper.  It  was  only  a  protest,  how- 
ever ;  taking  the  form  of  a  chanted  prayer.  For  how  may  the  Hindu 
know  that  the  soul  of  his  grandfather  does  not  look  out  through  those 
bovine  eyes!  At  any  rate,  he  acquires  merit  for  every  leaf  and  stock 
that  he  loses.     Now  and  again.  Marten  interpreted  a  rogation. 

"  Hast  thou  not  always  had  thy  fill,  oh,  holy  one !  "  prayed  the  native, 
rocking  his  body  back  and  forth  in  time  to  his  chant,  "  I  would  willingly 
feed  thee.  Hast  thou  not  always  found  welcome  at  my  shop?  But  I 
am  a  poor  man,  O  king  of  sacred  beasts.  I  pray  thee,  therefore,  take 
of  the  goods  of  my  neighbor,  who  is  the  possessor  of  great  wealth. 
For  my  poverty  is  extreme,  and  if  thou  dost  not  desist,  to-morrow  may 
I  not  be  here  to  feed  thee." 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  prayer,  the  animal  moved  on  to  the  booth  of 
the  neighbor,  who  bore  no  outward  sign,  at  least,  of  the  great  wealth 
that  had  been  charged  against  him.  His  stock  was  fresh,  however, 
and  the  bull  ate  generously  in  spite  of  the  keeper's  incantation.  A 
second  and  a  third  time  the  prayer  was  repeated,  but  to  no  effect. 
Then  the  Hindu,  picking  up  the  joint  of  a  bamboo,  murmured  the 
prayer  into  it. 


324      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Thou  canst  not  hear  the  prayer  of  a  poor  man,  O  sacred  one, 
through  thy  ears,"  wailed  the  merchant.  "  Listen  then  to  this  peti- 
tion," and,  rising  in  his  place,  he  struck  the  animal  sharply  over  the 
nose  with  the  bamboo.  The  bull  turned  a  reproachful  gaze  on  the 
violator  of  his  sanctity,  looked  sorrowfully  at  him  for  a  moment 
through  half -closed  eyelids,  and  strolled  slowly  away. 

Conspicuous  among  the  swarming  thousands  of  Puri  are  the  widows. 
With  the  death  of  her  husband  the  Hindu  woman  must  shave  her  head 
and  dress  in  a  snow-white  sheet  that  clings  closely  about  her  as  she 
walks.  Under  no  circumstances  may  she  marry  again  nor  lay  aside  the 
garb  that  announces  her  bereavement.  More  often  than  not  her  de- 
parted spouse  has  left  her  unprovided  with  this  world's  goods,  and  in 
India  the  woman's  means  of  earning  a  livelihood  are  —  well,  painfully 
limited.  Under  a  humane  British  rule  the  widow's  fate  is  less  cruel 
than  in  the  days  when  she  mounted  the  funeral  pyre  with  her  dead, 
perhaps ;  but  it  is  certainly  no  less  humiliating.  The  uninformed 
sahib  would  seem  justified  in  supposing  that  the  chief  interest  of  the 
Indian  wife  is  the  preservation  of  her  husband's  health. 

The  Hindu  woman  of  the  masses  enjoys  an  almost  Occidental  free- 
dom from  seclusion.  Compared  with  the  coarse  females  of  Moham- 
medan lands,  she  is  modest,  almost  dainty  —  pretty,  too,  in  her  younger 
days,  for  all  her  color.  But  age  comes  early,  and  with  the  increase 
of  wrinkles  and  barbaric  jewelry  her  charms  fade.  Her  costume  is 
more  ample  than  that  of  the  Singhalese, —  a  single  strip  of  cloth  of  ten 
or  twelve  yards  wound  round  her  body  from  neck  to  ankles,  leaving 
only  arms  and  left  shoulder  bare.  Lithe  and  supple  by  nature,  her 
every  movement  might  be  graceful  were  it  not  the  custom  of  her  hus- 
band, dreading  the  tax  collector,  to  load  her  down  with  his  surplus 
wealth.  As  a  girl  she  is  bedecked  with  gaudy  trinkets  before  her  cos- 
tume has  advanced  beyond  the  fig-leaf  stage ;  as  a  matron,  her  passing 
sounds  like  a  junk-shop  in  the  grasp  of  a  cyclone.  It  is  no  unusual  ex- 
perience to  meet  a  female  wearing  rings  on  every  finger  and  toe ;  brace- 
lets on  both  arms  from  wrists  to  elbows ;  rings  in  the  top,  side,  and  lobe 
of  each  ear ;  and  three  nose-rings,  one  of  which,  some  two  inches  in 
diameter,  pierces  the  left  nostril  and  swings  back  and  forth  against  the 
cheek  of  the  wearer.  What  a  throb  of  joy  must  come  to  the  husband 
who  presses  so  precious  a  wife  to  his  bosom !  But  on  the  other  hand, 
as  once  I  caught  Marten  musing  to  himself,  "  Suppose  she  flew  de 
coop?  " 

The  term  "  old  maid  "  has  no  synonym  in  Hindustanee,  and  needed 


'Suttee"  having  been  forbidden  by  their  English  rulers,  Hindu  widows        t 
must  now  shave  their  heads,  dress  in  white,  and  gain 
their  livelihood  as  best  the}'  can 


A  seller  of  the  wood  with  which  the  bodies  of  Hindus  are  burned  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges.     Very  despised  caste. 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  HINDU  325 

none  until  the  first  female  missionary  invaded  the  peninsula.  Bache- 
lors, too,  are  rare.  There  chanced  to  fall  into  my  hands  an  Anglo-In- 
dian sheet  wherein  was  propounded  this  enigma  over  the  signature  of 
"  a  puzzled  babu." 

"  Why,"  demanded  the  puzzled  one,  after  the  usual  incomprehen- 
sible introduction  necessary  to  prove  his  knowledge  of  the  sahib  tongue, 
"  is  the  Englishman  living  many  times  without  a  wife?  If  the  Hindu 
is  more  than  very  young  and  has  not  yet  married  himself  he  is  con- 
templated wicked  and  unclean.  I  am  reading  that  in  all  the  white 
man  countries  there  live  more  women  than  the  men  are.  Why  has 
not  every  sahib  taken  one  for  his  wife?  " 

Why  not,  indeed? 

Marten  had  begun  to  display  an  arrogant  author's  pride  in  the  tale 
that  had  carried  him  so  rapidly  northward.  Several  times  he  had 
gone  out  of  his  way  in  Puri  to  tell  some  Eurasian  or  babu  the  sad 
story  of  his  marooning,  and,  as  afternoon  crept  on,  he  resolved  to  re- 
peat it  once  more  for  the  entertainment  of  the  commissioner  of  the 
district. 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "  you  have  a  ticket  to  Calcutta.  You  can't  use 
two ! " 

"  Right,"  he  answered,  "  but  it 's  about  six  cigarettes  from  the  com- 
mish's  bungalow  to  the  station,  and  he  may  come  up  with  the  dibs  with- 
out sending  a  nigger  so  far  to  buy  the  pasteboard.  If  he  don't  loosen 
we  '11  have  to  fix  it  up  with  the  station  master." 

The  commissioner  had  fled  to  the  hills  and  his  deputy  was  a  native ; 
a  strange  one,  though,  for  he  not  only  acceded  to  the  request  of  the 
stranded  seaman  for  a  through  ticket,  but  actually  and  visibly  hur- 
ried to  complete  the  necessary  formalities  before  the  departure  of  the 
daily  train.  He  did  not  "  come  up  with  the  dibs,"  however,  nor  would 
the  station  master  buy  back  the  ticket  which  a  government  clerk 
purchased  for  my  companion.  But  there  was  some  gain  in  the 
manoeuver ;  for  upon  his  arrival  in  Calcutta  the  railway  officials  very 
kindly  refunded  to  Marten  some  four  rupees  on  the  unused  portion 
of  the  ticket  from  Berhampore. 

An  express  similar  to  that  from  which  we  had  alighted  twenty-four 
hours  before  rumbled  into  Khurda  Road  soon  after  we  reached  the 
main  line.  We  strolled  along  the  platform  and  pulled  open  the  door 
of  the  European  compartment  —  and  fell  back  in  astonishment.  A 
familiar  topee  with  bulging  hatband  swung  from  a  peg  near  the  ceil- 
ing.    On  a  bench  beneath,  reposed  the  bundle  which  I  had  once  lugged 


326      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

across  the  Maidan  of  Madras,  and  beside  it  sat  Haywood !  For  some 
cause  unknown  he  had  been  released  at  the  end  of  six  days'  imprison- 
ment and  had  lost  no  time  in  taking  the  north-bound  express  —  with- 
out a  ticket. 

His  joy  at  the  reunion  exceeded  our  own.  Marten  grumbled  under 
his  breath  at  the  fate  that  kept  us  in  such  baneful  company,  and,  though 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  invent  fanciful  tales  to  explain  to  querulous  col- 
lectors the  presence  of  three  tropical  helmets  when  only  two  travelers 
were  visible,  he  said  nothing  of  the  extra  ticket  in  his  hatband. 
Several  times  during  the  night  Haywood  found  it  expedient  to  drop  out 
the  further  door  for  a  stroll  in  the  darkness,  but  he  escaped  detection 
and,  as  the  day  dawned,  alighted  with  us  at  the  Howrah  terminal.  He 
had  "  held  down  "  the  same  train  without  paying  an  anna  of  fare,  for 
1,032  miles! 

The  pontoon  bridge  connecting  Howrah  with  Calcutta  was  alive  with 
coolies  tramping  from  their  wretched  hovels  on  the  western  bank 
to  a  day  of  toil  in  the  city.  A  multitude  of  natives  disported  in  the 
muddy  waters  of  the  Hoogly  before  a  sacred  bathing  ghat.  Below 
the  bridge  scores  of  ships  lay  at  anchor,  native  sampans  and  barges 
inveigled  their  way  among  them,  from  the  docks  came  the  rattle  of 
steam  cranes  and  the  shrill  chatter  of  stevedores  at  their  labor.  Here, 
at  last,  was  a  real  city,  with  all  its  familiar  roar  and  bustle.  My  com- 
panions departed  to  visit  a  missionary  notorious  for  his  friendliness  to 
beachcombers,  and  I  plunged  at  random  into  the  stream  of  humanity 
that  surged  through  the  dusty  streets. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE   HEART   OF   INDIA 


LATE  that  afternoon  we  were  reunited  at  the  Sailors'  Home. 
As  time  wore  on  the  conviction  grew  that  we  must  shake  off 
Haywood  once  for  all.  Go  where  we  would,  he  was  ever  at 
our  heels,  bringing  disgrace  upon  us.  Picking  pockets  was  his  glee. 
When  other  excitement  failed  he  turned  to  filching  small  articles  from 
the  booths  along  the  way.  The  last  straw  was  added  to  our  burden  as 
we  were  returning  to  the  Home  along  the  Strand  on  our  second  day 
in  Calcutta.  The  sophisticated  inhabitants  of  the  metropolis,  far  from 
springing  aside  at  the  approach  of  a  European,  are  more  accus- 
tomed to  push  him  into  the  gutter.  To  be  jostled  by  a  *'  nigger  "  was 
an  insult  that  Haywood  could  not  brook.  He  resorted  to  Bowery  tac- 
tics; but  to  little  effect,  for  the  Strand  was  crowded.  The  day  was 
hot.  The  higher  caste  natives,  our  chief  annoyers,  carried  umbrel- 
las that  soon  suggested  to  the  New  Yorker  a  better  means  of  retali- 
ation. Opening  his  pocket  knife,  he  marched  boldly  through  the 
throng,  slashing  viciously  at  every  sunshade  whose  owner  provoked 
Ills  ire.  An  angry  murmur  rose  behind  us.  Before  we  had  reached 
the  Home,  a  screaming  mob  of  tradesmen  surged  around  us,  waving 
ruined  umbrellas  in  our  faces.  Decidedly  it  was  time  to  abandon  the 
perpetrator  of  such  outrages.  Hints  had  availed  nothing,  frankness 
less.  Violence  against  a  "  pal "  was  out  of  keeping  with  the  code  of 
morals  of  *'  the  road."'    There  was  nothing  left  but  strategy. 

The  New  Yorker  ate  heartily  that  evening.  His  plate  was  still 
heaped  high  with  currie  and  rice  when  Marten  and  I  retired  to  a  bench 
in  the  garden  of  the  Home.  Plan  had  I  none,  as  yet,  for  continuing 
my  journey,  for  Calcutta  was  worth  a  week  of  sight-seeing.  But  plans 
are  quickly  made  in  the  vagabond  world. 

"  Look  here,  mate,"  said  Marten,  in  a  stage  whisper,  "  we  've  got  to 
ditch  that  fellow.  The  cops  '11  be  running  us  in  along  with  him  some 
day." 

I  nodded.  A  seaman  came  to  stretch  himself  out  in  the  grass  near 
at  hand,  and  we  fell  silent.     Darkness  was  striding  upon  us  when  a 

327 


328      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

servant  of  the  Home  advanced  to  close  the  gate  leading  into  the  street. 
Suddenly  Marten  raised  a  hand  and  shouted  to  the  gateman. 

"  Let 's  dig  out,"  he  muttered. 

**  Where  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Up  country." 

"  Sure,"  I  answered,  springing  to  my  feet. 

We  slipped  out  through  the  gate,  stalked  across  the  Maidan  among 
the  statues  of  sahibs  v^ho  have  made  history  in  India,  past  old  Fort 
William,  and  down  to  the  banks  of  the  Hoogly.  The  tropical  night  had 
fallen,  and  above  the  city  behind  blazed  the  brilliant  southern  cross. 
For  an  hour  we  tramped  along  the  docks,  jostled  now  and  then  by 
black  stevedores  and  native  seamen.  The  cobble  stones  under  our 
feet  gave  way  to  a  soft  country  road.  A  railway  crossed  our  path 
and  we  stumbled  along  it  in  the  darkness.  Out  of  the  night  rose  a 
large,  two-story  bungalow. 

"  Guards'  shack,"  said  Marten. 

A  "  goods  train  "  was  making  up  in  the  yards.  A  European  in  the 
uniform  of  a  brakeman  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  bungalow,  a  lantern 
in  his  hand.     Behind  him  came  a  coolie,  carrying  his  lunch-basket. 

"  Goin'  out  soon,  mate  ?  "  bawled  Marten. 

"  All  made  up,"  answered  the  Englishman,  peering  at  us  a  moment 
with  the  lantern  high  above  his  head,  and  hurrying  on. 

"  Think  we  '11  go  along,"  shouted  Marten. 

The  guard  was  already  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness,  but  his  voice 
came  back  to  us  out  of  the  night:  — 

**  All  right!     Lay  low!" 

A  moment  later  the  tiny  British  engine  shrieked,  a  man  in  the 
neighboring  tower  opened  the  block,  and  the  diminutive  freight 
screamed  by  us.  We  grasped  the  rods  of  a  high,  open  car  and  swung 
ourselves  up.  On  the  floor,  folded  to  the  size  of  a  large  mattress, 
lay  a  tarpaulin  car-cover.  A  cooling  breeze,  sweeping  over  the  moving 
train,  lulled  us  to  sleep.  Once  we  were  awakened  by  the  roar  of  a 
passing  express,  and  peered  over  the  edge  of  the  car  to  find  ourselves 
on  a  switch.  Then  the  train  rattled  on  and  we  stretched  out  again. 
A  second  time  we  were  aroused  by  shunting  engines,  and  the  guard, 
passing  by,  called  out  that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  run.  We 
climbed  out,  and,  retreating  to  a  grassy  slope,  slept  out  the  night. 

The  morning  sun  showed  an  extensive  forest  close  at  hand.  A  red, 
sandy  roadway,  deep-shaded  by  thick  overhanging  branches,  led  off 
through  the  trees.     Here  and  there  in  a  tiny  clearing  a  scrawny  native 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  329 

cooked  a  scanty  breakfast  over  a  fire  of  leaves  and  twigs  before  his 
thatch  hut.  Above  us  sounded  the  note  of  a  tropical  bird.  The  jost- 
ling multitudes  and  sullen  roar  of  Calcutta  seemed  innumerable  leagues 
distant. 

The  forest  opened  and  fell  away  on  either  hand ;  and  we  paused  on 
the  high,  grassy  bank  of  a  broad  river,  glistening  in  the  slanting  sun- 
light. Below,  in  two  groups,  natives,  male  and  female,  were  bathing. 
Along  a  highway  following  the  course  of  the  river  stretched  a  one- 
row  town,  low  hovels  of  a  single  story  for  the  most  part,  above  which 
a  government  building  and  a  modest  little  church  stood  out  conspic- 
uously. 

A  quaint,  old-fashioned  spire  against  the  background  of  an  India 
horizon  is  a  landmark  not  easily  forgotten. 

"Thunder!"  snorted  Martin.  "Is  this  all  we've  made?  That 
bloody  train  must  have  been  side-tracked  half  the  time  we  was  poundin' 
our  list'ners.  I  know  this  burg.  It 's  Hoogly,  not  forty  miles  from 
Cally.  But  there  's  a  commish  here.  He  's  a  real  sport,  and  ticketed 
me  to  Cally  four  years  ago.  Don  't  believe  he  '11  remember  my  figure- 
'ead,  neither.     Come  on." 

We  strolled  on  down  the  highway.  Before  the  government  build- 
ing a  score  of  prisoners,  with  belts  and  heavy  anklets  of  iron  con- 
nected by  two  jointed  bars,  were  piling  cobble  stones. 

"  But  here !  "  I  cried  suddenly ;  "  He  '11  only  give  you  a  ticket  back 
to  Calcutta  if  we  're  so  near  there." 

"  No  bloody  fear,"  retorted  Marten ;  "  he  '11  ticket  me  the  way 
I  want  to  go.     That 's  old  Lord  Curzy's  law." 

"  Then  you  '11  have  to  drop  that  yarn  about  the  Guiseppe  Sarto." 

Marten  had  thus  christened  his  phantom  ship,  not  because  he 
hoped  to  win  favor  with  the  Pope,  but  because  he  had  been  hard- 
pressed  for  an  Italian  name.  Commissioners  who  listened  to  his 
"  song  and  dance "  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  drawing  from  a 
pigeon-hole  the  latest  marine  guide  at  the  mention  of  an  English 
vessel.  But  Italian  wind-jammers,  unlisted,  might  be  moved  about 
as  freely  as  pawns  on  a  chessboard. 

"  Drop  nothing,"  snapped  the  ex-pearl  fisher.  "  Think  I  'm  goin' 
to  let  a  good  yarn  like  that  go  to  waste,  an'  after  me  spendin'  a 
whole  bloody  day  learnin'  to  pronounce  that  dago  name  —  an'  the 
skipper's  ?  Not  me !  I  'm  goin'  to  send  the  Joe  Taylor  " —  in  familiar 
parlance  he  preferred  the  English  version  of  the  name  — "  over  to 
Bombay,  this  time.     I  '11  have  'er  due  there  in  four  days." 


330     A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

We  turned  in  at  an  imposing  lodge  gate  and  followed  a  graveled 
walk  towards  a  great,  white  bungalow  with  windows  commanding  a 
vista  of  the  sparkling  Hoogly  and  the  rolling  plains  beyond.  From 
the  veranda,  curtained  by  trailing  vines,  richly-garbed  servants 
watched  our  approach  with  the  half-belligerent,  half-curious  air  of 
faithful  house  dogs.  Having  no  personal  interest  in  the  proceedings, 
I  dropped  into  a  rustic  bench  beside  the  highway.  A  chatter  of 
Hindustanee  greeted  my  companion;  a  stocky  Punjabi  rose  from  his 
heels  and  entered  the  bungalow.  j 

There  ensued  a  scene  without  precedent  in  my  Indian  experience. 
A  tall,  comely  Englishman,  dressed  in  the  whitest  of  ducks,  stepped 
briskly  out  upon  the  veranda,  and,  totally  ignoring  the  awful  gulf 
that  separates  a  district  commissioner  from  a  penniless  beachcomber, 
bawled  out:  — 

"  I  say,  you  chaps,  come  inside  and  have  some  breakfast." 

Much  less  would  have  been  my  astonishment  had  he  suddenly 
opened  fire  on  us  from  a  masked  battery.  I  looked  up  to  see  Marten 
leaning  weakly  against  a  veranda  post. 

"  I  only  come  with  my  mate,  sir,"  I  explained.  "  It 's  him  as  wants 
the  ticket.     I  'm  only  waitin',  sir." 

"  Then  come  along  and  have  some  breakfast  while  you  wait,"  re- 
torted the  Englishman.  "  Early  risers  have  good  appetites,  and  where 
would  you  buy  anything  fit  to  eat  in  Hoogly  ?  I  've  finished,  but 
Maghmood  has  covers  laid  for  you." 

We  entered  the  bungalow  on  tiptoe  and  took  places  at  a  flower- 
decked  table.  Two  turbaned  servants  slipped  noiselessly  into  the  room 
and  served  us  viands  of  other  lands.  A  punkah-wallah  on  the  veranda 
kept  the  great  fans  in  motion.  Upon  me  feL  the  vague  sense  of 
having  witnessed  scenes  like  this  in  some  former  existence.  Even 
here,  then,  on  the  banks  of  the  Hoogly,  men  ate  with  knives  and 
forks  from  delicate  chinaware,  wiping  their  fingers  on  snow-white 
linen  rather  than  on  a  leg  of  their  trousers,  and  left  fruit  peelings 
on  their  plates  instead  of  throwing  them  under  the  table !  It  seemed 
anachronistic. 

"  I  told  you,"  murmured  Marten,  finishing  his  steak  and  a  long 
silence,  and  mopping  his  plate  dry  with  a  slice  of  bread  plastered  with 
butter  from  far-off  Denmark ;  "  I  told  you  he  was  a  real  sport.  He  's 
the  same  one,  an*  give  me  a  swell  hand-out  four  years  ago." 

Maghmood  entered  bearing  cigars  and  cigarettes  on  a  silver  tray. 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  331 

and  the  information  that  we  were  to  follow  the  commissioner  to  his 
office,  two  miles  distant. 

An  hour  later  we  were  journeying  leisurely  northwestward  in  a 
crowded  train  that  halted  at  every  hamlet  and  crossroad.  Marten 
had  received  a  ticket  to  Bankipore,  far  beyond  the  destination  of  the 
local  at  Burdwan,  where  we  alighted  three  hours  before  the  arrival 
of  the  night  express.  A  gaping  crowd  surrounded  us  as  we  halted 
to  purchase  sweetmeats  in  the  bazaars  and,  flocking  at  our  heels, 
quickly  drew  upon  us  the  attention  of  the  local  police. 

Dreading  Russian  spies,  the  Indian  government  has,  during  the 
few  years  past,  required  its  officers  to  follow  closely  the  trail  of  for- 
eigners within  the  country.  The  native  policeman,  however,  could 
not  distinguish  a  suspicious  character  from  a  member  of  the  viceroy's 
council,  and  takes  a  childish  delight  in  demonstrating  his  importance 
to  society  by  subjecting  every  sahib  stranger  who  will  suffer  it  to 
a  lengthy  cross-examination.  Half  the  gendarmes  of  Burdwan,  eager 
to  win  from  their  superiors  reputation  for  perspicacity,  sought  to  bring 
us  before  the  recorders  at  the  police  station.  Their  methods  were 
ludicrous.  They  neither  commanded  nor  requested;  they  invited  us 
in  the  flowery  phrases  of  compliment  to  accompany  them,  and,  when 
we  passed  on  unheeding,  turned  back  in  sorrow  to  their  posts. 

Two  lynx-eyed  officers,  however,  hung  on  our  heels,  and,  following 
us  to  the  station  as  night  fell,  joined  a  group  of  railway  gendarmes 
on  the  platform.  A  lengthy  conference  ensued;  then  the  squad  lined 
up  before  the  bench  on  which  we  were  seated,  and  a  sergeant  drew 
out  one  of  the  small  volumes  which  the  government  has  adopted  as 
a  register  for  transient  Europeans. 

**  Will  the  sahibs  be  pleased  to  give  me  their  names  ?  "  wheedled 
the  sergeant,  in  the  timid  voice  of  a  half-starved  Villon  addressing 
his  verses  to  a  noble  patron. 

I  took  the  book  and  pencil  from  his  hand  and  filled  out  the  blanks 
on  a  page. 

"  And  you,  sahib  ? "  said  the  officer,  turning  to  Marten. 

"  Oh,  go  to  the  devil ! "  growled  my  companion ;  **  I  ain't  no 
Roossian.  You  got  no  damn  business  botherin'  Europeans.  Go 
chase  yourself." 

"  The  sahib  must  give  the  informations  or  he  cannot  go  on  the 
train,"  murmured  the  native. 

"  How  the  devil  will  you  stop  me  from  goin'  ?  "  demanded  Marten. 


332      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

The  officer  muttered  something  in  the  vernacular  to  his  companions. 

"  You  would,  would  ybu  ?  "  bellowed  Marten. 

*'  Ah !  The  sahib  speaks  Hindustanee  ? "  gasped  the  sergeant. 
"  What  is  your  name,  please,  sir?  " 

"  Look  here,"  growled  Marten,  "  I  '11  give  you  my  name  if  you  '11 
promise  not  to  ask  any  more  fool  questions." 

The  native  smiled  with  delight  and  poised  his  pencil. 

"  And  the  name,  sir?  " 

"  Higgeldy  Piggeldy,"  said  Marten. 

"  Ah !     And  how  is  it  spelled,  please,  sahib  ?  " 

The  sergeant  wrote  the  words  slowly  and  solemnly  at  my  com- 
panion's dictation." 

"  And  which  is  the  sahib's  birthplace  ?  "  he  wheedled. 

"  You  bloody  liar,"  roared  Marten ;  "  did  n't  you  say  you  would  n't 
ask  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Ah !  Yes,  sahib,"  bleated  the  babu ;  "  but  we  must  have  the  in- 
formations.    Please,  sir,  which  is  your  birthplace  ?  " 

"  If  you  don't  chase  yourself,  I  '11  break  your  neck !  "  roared  Mar- 
ten, springing  to  his  feet. 

The  assembled  officers  fell  over  each  other  in  their  haste  to  escape 
the  onslaught.  Marten  returned  to  the  bench  and  sat  down  in  moody 
silence.  The  sergeant,  urged  forward  by  his  fellow  officers,  advanced 
timidly  to  within  several  paces  of  us  and,  poised  ready  to  spring,  ad- 
dressed me  in  gentle  tones :  — 

"  Sahib,  the  police  wish,  please,  sir,  to  know  why  the  sahibs  have 
come  to  Burdwan." 

"  Because  the  local  dropped  us  here,  and  we  had  to  wait  for  the 
express." 

"  But  why  have  you  not  take  the  express  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  We  were  at  Hoogly.     It  does  n't  stop  there." 

"  Then,  why  have  you  not  stay  in  the  station  ?  Why  have  you 
walked  in  the  bazaars  and  in  the  temples  ?  " 

"  To  see  the  sights,  of  course." 

"  But  there  are  not  sights  in  Burdwan.  It  is  a  dirty  village  and 
very  poor  and  very  small.  Europeans  are  coming  to  Benares  and 
to  Calcutta,  but  they  are  not  coming  in  Burdwan.  Why  have  the 
sahibs  come  in  Burdwan,  and  the  sun  is  very  hot  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  why.     The  sun  does  n't  bother  us." 

"  Then  why  have  the  sahibs  bought  sweets  and  chappaties  in  the 
bazaars  ?  " 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  333 

"  Because  we  were  hungry/' 

"  Sahibs  are  not  eating  native  food ;  they  must  have  European  food. 
Vhy  have  you  bought  these  ? " 

"  For  Lord's  sake,  hit  that  nigger  on  the  head  with  something  I " 
)urst  out  Marten.     "  I  want  to  sleep." 

The  sergeant  retreated  several  paces  and  continued  his  examina- 
ion. 

"  And  why  have  the  sahibs  gone  to  the  tem  —  ? " 

The  shriek  of  an  in-coming  train  drowned  the  rest,  and  we  hastened 
owards  the  European  compartment. 

"  You  must  not  go  in  the  train ! "  screamed  the  sergeant,  while 
;he  squad  danced  excitedly  around  us.     "  Stop !    You  must  answer  — " 

We  stepped  inside  and  slammed  the  door. 

"The  train  cannot  be  allowed  to  go!"  screeched  the  babu,  racing 
up  and  down  the  platform.  "  The  sahibs  are  not  allowed  to  go.  You 
must  hold  the  train,  sahib ! "  he  cried  to  a  European  guard  hurry- 
ing by. 

"Hold  nothing,"  answered  the  official.  "Are  you  crazy?  This 
is  the  Bombay  mail,"  and  he  blew  his  whistle. 

The  sergeant  grasped  the  edge  of  the  open  window  with  one  hand 
and,  waving  his  notebook  wildly  in  the  other,  raced  along  the  plat- 
form beside  us. 

"You  must  answer  the  questions,  sahibs — " 

The  train  was  rapidly  gaining  headway. 

"  Get  dqwn,  sahibs !    Come  out !    You  are  not  allowed  — " 

He  could  hold  the  pace  no  longer.  With  a  final  shriek  he  released 
his  hold  and  we  sped  on  into  the  night. 

Hours  afterward  we  were  awakened  by  a  voice  at  the  open  window. 
A  native  officer  was  peering  in  upon  us. 

"  I  have  received  a  telegraph  from  Burdwan  for  a  sahib  who  has 
not  answered  some  questions,"  he  smiled,  holding  up  his  notebook.  ♦ 

"  My  name  's  Franck,"  I  yawned. 

"  Then  it  must  be  the  other  sahib,"  said  the  native.  "  You  are,  sir, 
I  think,  Mr.  Higgeldy  Piggeldy  ?  " 

"  Naw !  Mine 's  Marten,"  said  my  companion,  drawing  out  his 
papers.  "  Bloody  funny  name,  that.  Can't  be  no  Englishman.  Must 
be  a  Roossian." 

We  left  the  express  at  daybreak.  Bankipore  was  suffering  from 
one  of  the  long  droughts  that  have  ever  been  the  blight  of  this  section 
of  India.     The  flat  plains  of  the  surrounding  country  spread  out  an 


334      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

arid,  sun-baked  desert  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  Along  the  road- 
way the  dust  rose  in  clouds  at  every  step,  the  trees  stood  lifeless  in 
ragged  shrouds  of  dead,  brown  leaves.  The  few  low-caste  natives  still 
energetic  enough  to  bestir  themselves  dragged  by  at  the  listless  pace 
of  animals  turned  out  to  die,  utter  hopelessness  in  their  shriveled  faces, 
their  tongues  lolling  from  their  mouths.  The  sear  grass  of  the  great 
Maidan  was  crushed  to  powder  under  our  feet;  a  half-mile  stroll 
brought  on  all  the  symptoms  of  physical  fatigue;  the  moistureless, 
dust-laden  air  smarted  in  our  throats  and  lungs  and  left  our  lips  and 
nostrils  parched  and  cracking. 

In  the  center  of  the  Maidan,  as  far  as  possible  from  the  human 
kennels  of  the  surrounding  town,  were  pitched  several  sun-bleached 
tents.  A  dun-colored  coolie,  squatting  in  a  dusty  patch,  cried  out  at 
our  approach;  and  a  native  of  higher  caste  pushed  aside  the  flap  of 
the  tent  and,  shading  his  eyes  under  an  outstretched  hand,  gazed 
towards  us.  He  was  dressed  in  uniform,  his  jacket  open  at  the 
throat,  and  his  bare  feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  shabby  slippers.  A 
figure  commonplace  enough,  yet  at  sight  of  him  we  gasped  with 
delight.  For  on  his  head  sat  a  fez!  It  was  far  from  becoming  to 
its  wearer;  a  turban  would  have  offered  more  protection  against  the 
Indian  sun,  but  it  heralded  a  Mohammedan  free  from  the  fanatical 
superstitions  of  the  Brahmin  faith.  We  might  quench  our  thirst  at 
once  with  no  pollution  of  the  cup;  and  depart  without  feeling  that 
creepy  sensation  of  guilt  that  one  experiences  at  home  in  stopping  in 
a  saloon  for  a  drink  of  water  —  if  such  things  happen.  How  the  point 
of  view  towards  one's  fellow  men  change  with  every  advance  to  the 
eastward!  In  this  superstitious  land  an  Islamite  seemed  almost  a 
brother. 

But  we  were  thirsty. 

"  Pawnee  hai  ?    Oh  I  Maghmood,  we  would  drink,"  cried  Marten. 

The  follower  of  the  prophet  smiled  at  the  words  of  the  vernacular 
as  he  answered  in  perfect  English:  — 

"  Assuredly,  gentlemen.  I  should  be  delighted.  Step  inside,  where 
it  is  cooler." 

His  was  no  crude-builded  language  of  the  babu.  An  Oxford  fellow 
could  not  have  expressed  his  thoughts  more  clearly,  nor  given  more 
immediate  evidence  of  a  sahib  point  of  view. 

The  tent  was  furnished  with  mats  and  couches.  In  one  corner 
stood  a  chair  and  a  desk  littered  with  papers.     The  Mohammedan 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  335 

handed  us  a  chettie  of  water.  When  we  had  drunk  our  fill,  he  offered 
cigarettes  and  motioned  to  a  couch. 

"  Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "  Unless  you  have  urgent  busi- 
ness you  may  as  well  rest  a  bit.'* 

"  Gee !  "  puffed  my  companion,  leaning  back  on  his  elbows ;  "  I  'm 
glad  a  Mohammedan's  superstitions  don't  make  him  believe  all  this 
loinmy-rot  about  pollution." 

Marten  of  Tacoma  was  not  distinguished  for  tact. 

"  We  try,  at  any  rate,"  smiled  the  officer,  "  to  be  sane  in  our  be- 
liefs." 

"  Of  course,"  went  on  my  mate,  ''  you  have  plenty  of  fool  supersti- 
tions, too ;  and  you  put  rings  in  your  wives'  noses,  to  lead  'em  around 
by,  I  suppose?." 

A  flash  of  fire  kindled  the  eye  of  our  host,  but  he  smiled  again  as 
he  replied: 

"  We  try,  though,  sir,  to  be  sparing  of  unnecessary  insults." 

"  Gee ! "  murmured  Marten,  without  looking  up ;  "  This  is  a  good 
cigarette." 

"  Is  this  an  encampment?  "  I  put  in,  feeling  it  my  duty  to  lead  the 
conversation  into  other  channels.     "  I  don't  see  any  sepoys  about." 

"  Oh,  by  no  means,"  said  the  Mohammedan ;  "  this  is  police  head- 
quarters.    The  smaller  tents  house  the  men." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  soldier?  " 

"  Not  in  recent  years.     I  am  chief  of  police  for  Bankipore." 

Marten  cast  a  half-startled  glance  at  the  profile  of  the  man  he  had 
taken  for  a  simple  sergeant,  and  assumed  a  more  dignified  posture. 

"  The  police,  then,  live  in  tents  here?  "  I  went  on. 

"  If  we  did  n't,  few  of  us  would  be  living  at  all,"  replied  the  chief. 
"  Early  in  March,  with  the  famine,  the  plague  broke  out,  and  the 
inhabitants  have  been  dying  in  hundreds  ever  since.  Ten  of  the 
force  were  carried  from  their  huts  to  the  funeral  pyres  in  the  first 
week.     Then  we  set  up  the  tents." 

"Doesn't  the  government  try  to  check  the  epidemic?" 

"  Try !  We  have  been  fighting  it  tooth  and  nail  since  the  day  it 
began.  But  what  can  we  do  among  ignorant,  superstitious  Hindus? 
Our  people  are  poor.  They  live  in  filthy  huts  with  dirt  floors,  into 
which  rats  can  dig  easily.  If  we  attempt  to  fumigate  a  house,  the 
family  abandons  it  and  sleeps  on  the  ground  outside,  the  surest  way 
of  taking  the  plague.     If  we  try  to  purify  their  water  and  food  we 


336     A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

have  a  riot  on  our  hands.  The  huts,  too,  are  so  packed  together  and 
burdened  with  filth  that  the  only  way  to  clean  them  would  be  to  burn 
up  the  town.  We  have  a  force  of  government  doctors.  Medicine, 
also,  is  free' to  all.  But  you  know  my  people.  They  would  far  rather 
die  of  plague  than  run  the  risk  of  losing  caste  through  the  doctor's 
touch.  If  a  man  dies,  his  family  prefers  to  scoop  a  hole  in  the  floor 
and  squat  on  his  grave,  rather  than  to  turn  his  body  over  to  Chris- 
tians or  Mohammedans.  We  have  strict  laws  against  concealing  sick- 
ness and  death,  but  it  is  difficult  to  enforce  them.  To  make  things 
worse,  the  rumor  is  always  going  the  rounds  that  the  sahib  govern- 
ment has  ordered  the  doctors  to  poison  their  patients  or  cast  a  spell 
upon  them;  and  among  the  masses  such  tales  are  readily  believed. 
What  can  you  expect  of  ignorant,  fanatical  people  who  barely  realize 
that  reading  and  writing  exist,  and  who  never  learn  anything  except 
on  hearsay?  Police  and  doctors  and  government  medicine  will  never 
wipe  out  the  plague.  The  only  thing  that  can  stop  it  is  rain,  and 
until  that  comes  Bankipore  will  keep  on  dying." 

Marvelous  was  the  manner  in  which  this  son  of  the  Orient  ran  on 
in  an  alien  tongue,  never  at  a  loss  for  the  word  to  express  his  mean- 
ing precisely. 

"  Do  all  those  attacked  by  the  plague  die  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  have  been  keeping  tab  on  the  cases,"  returned  the  chief,  "  and 
I  find  that  a  fraction  of  less  than  ninety-six  per  cent  result  fatally. 
I  know  of  men  who  have  recovered.  Our  former  district  commis- 
sioner was  one.  If  the  victim  is  a  European  or  a  well-to-do  native 
he  has  about  one  chance  for  life  to  three  for  death.  But  among  the 
sudras,  the  coolies,  the  peasants,  the  poor  shopkeepers,  there  is  small 
hope.  They  have  always  half  starved  on  a  rice  diet,  the  drought  has 
left  us  famine-stricken  for  a  year ;  obviously,  having  no  (constitutions 
to  fall  back  upon,  they  merely  lie  down  and  die,  never  making  an 
effort  unless  their  religious  superstitions  are  in  danger  of  violation. 
No,  it  is  only  rain  that  will  save  us,"  he  concluded,  pushing  aside  the 
flap  of  the  tent  and  gazing  hopelessly  at  the  cloudless  sky. 

We  turned  away  into  the  town.  It  needed  no  word  from  the  chief 
of  police  to  call  attention  to  the  ravages  of  plague  and  famine.  The 
shopkeepers,  humped  over  their  wares,  wore  the  air  of  dogs  ever  in 
the  fear  of  a  beating;  the  low-caste  natives  stared  greedily  at  the 
stale,  dust-covered  foodstuffs  spread  out  along  the  way ;  fleshless  per- 
sonifications of  misery  crawled  by,  whining  for  cowries  —  the  sea- 
shells  that  charitable  India  bestows  on  her  beggar  army.     The  inhab- 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  337 

itants  were  not  hungry'.  That  is  their  normal  condition.  They  were 
starving.  Yet  the  general  misery  made  them  none  the  less  slaves 
of  their  omnipresent  superstitions.  The  gaunt,  sunken-eyed  merchant 
screamed  in  frenzy  when  our  fingers  approached  his  octogenarian 
rice  cakes  and  chappaties ;  he  held  his  bony  claw  on  a  level  with  our 
knees  to  catch  the  coppers  we  offered.  His  stock  was  plentiful,  if 
grey-bearded ;  his  prices  as  low  as  in  the  days  of  abundance.  It  was, 
after  all,  chiefly  a  famine  of  annas. 

At  the  great  government  bungalow,  on  a  low  hill  to  the  eastward 
of  the  town,  were  few  evidences  of  affliction.  The  official  force,  from 
the  richly-gowned  and  turbaned  judge,  holding  court  on  the  veranda, 
to  the  punkah-wallah  who  cooled  his  court-room,  were  glossy,  well-fed 
creatures.  The  commissioner,  who  drove  up  in  a  dog  cart  ornamented 
with  two  footmen  in  scarlet  and  white  livery,  and  who  marched  with 
majestic  tread  through  a  lane  of  kowtowing  inferiors,  certainly  had  not 
come  without  his  breakfast.  But  even  he  must  have  known  of  the 
famine,  for  in  the  stringy  shade  of  thin-foliaged  trees  nearby  huddled 
scores  of  wretches  waiting  for  leave  to  appeal  for  government  as- 
sistance. 

Native  starvelings,  obviously,  should  not  take  precedence  over  a 
sahib.  While  I  dropped  into  a  proffered  seat  at  the  right  hand  of 
the  judge.  Marten  followed  the  Englishman  inside.  A  long  line  of 
prisoners,  shackled  in  pairs  and  guarded  by  many  native  policemen, 
awaited  judgment.  Two  by  two  they  dropped  on  their  knees  in  the 
sun-scorched  dust,  sat  down  on  their  heels,  and,  raising  clasped  hands 
to  their  faces,  rocked  slowly  back  and  forth.  The  judge  muttered  a 
half-dozen  words,  which  writers  behind  him  jotted  down  in  ponderous 
volumes,  waved  a  flabby  hand,  and  the  culprits  passed  on. 

"  These,"  whispered  an  interpreter  in  my  ear,  "  are  wicked  thieves. 
They  have  stolen  chappaties  in  the  bazaars.  They  have  prison  for 
tliree  months.     These  next  escape  quickly  with  six  weeks.     They  have 

it  a  coolie  with  knives.  Those  who  kneel  now  have  polluted  high- 
caste  food." 

Close  to  an  hour  the  procession  continued.  An  aged  coolie, 
wrinkled  and  creased  of  skin  as  if  he  had  been  wrung  out  and  hung 
up  to  dry,  and  a  naked,  half-grown  boy  brought  up  the  rear.  While 
they  knelt,  the  secretary  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  book. 

"  More  thieves,"  said  the  interpreter.  "  The  boy  has  stolen  a  brass 
lota;  the  man,  the  lunch  of  a  train  guard,  three  months  ago.  Their 
prison  is  ended." 


ci 


338     A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

The  judge  spoke  and  a  policeman  produced  a  large  bunch  of  keys 
and  removed  their  shackles.  Man  and  boy  fell  on  their  faces  in  the 
dust,  and  rising,  wandered  away  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

A  moment  later  Marten  emerged  from  the  bungalow. 

"  The  old  song  and  dance  is  as  good  as  ever ! "  he  cried,  when  we 
were  out  of  earshot.  "  I  got  a  boost  to  Allahabad  an'  two  days'  bat- 
ter an'  the  commish's  sympathy.     Come  on ;  let 's  take  in  the  sights." 

Bankipore's  chief  object  of  interest  was  a  stone  granary,  in  shape  an 
immense  bee-hive  or  hay-cock,  depository  in  days  of  plenty  for  years 
of  famine.  As  such  things  go  in  India,  it  was  a  very  modern  struc- 
ture, having  been  erected  in  the  time  of  the  American  revolution.  It 
was  empty.  An  outside  stairway,  winding  upward,  led  to  a  circular 
opening  in  the  apex,  through  which  trains  of  coolies,  in  days  gone  by, 
poured  a  steady  stream  of  grain.  Within  was  Stygian  darkness. 
We  were  rewarded  for  the  perspiring  ascent  by  a  far-reaching  view 
of  the  famine-stricken  plains,  and  off  to  the  eastward  I  caught  my 
first  glimpse  of  the  Ganges. 

We  halted  late  that  night  at  Buxar,  far  short  of  Allahabad,  and 
took  slower  train  next  morning  to  Moghul  Serai.  For  to  have  re- 
mained on  board  the  express  would  have  been  to  pass  in  the  darkness 
the  holy  city  of  Benares. 

The  pilgrim  train  was  densely  packed  with  wildly-excited  natives 
and  their  precious  bundles.  Not  once  during  the  seven-mile  journey 
across  the  arid  plateau  did  a  vista  of  protruding  brown  feet  greet 
us  as  we  looked  back  along  the  carriages.  The  windows  of  every 
compartment  framed  eager,  longing  faces,  straining  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  sacred  city.  To  many  of  our  fellow-travelers  this 
twentieth  of  April  had  been  in  anticipation,  and  would  be  in  retrospect, 
the  greatest  day  of  their  worldly  existence.  For  the  mere  sight  of 
holy  "  Kashi "  suffices  to  wipe  out  many  sins  of  past  decades.  Even 
the  gods  of  the  Brahmin  come  here  to  consummate  their  purification. 

As  we  rounded  a  low  sand  dune,  a  muffled  chorus  of  exclamations 
sounded  above  the  rumble  of  the  train,  and  called  me  to  the  open 
window.  To  the  left,  a  half-mile  distant,  the  sacred  river  Ganges 
swept  round  from  the  eastward  in  a  graceful  curve  and  continued 
southward  across  our  path.  On  the  opposite  shore,  bathing  its  feet 
in  the  sparkling  stream,  sprawled  the  holy  city.  Travelers  familiar 
with  all  urban  dwelling  places  of  man  name  three  as  most  distinctive 
in  sky-line, —  New  York,  Constantinople  and  Benares.     The  last,  cer- 


Bankipur's  chief  object  of  interest  is  a  vast  granary  built  in  the  time  of  the 
American  Revolution  to  keep  grain  for  times  of  famine.     From  its  top 
the  traveler  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  the  Ganges 


Women  of  Delhi  near  gate  forced  during  the  Sepoy  rebellion.     One  carries  water 
in  a  Standard  Oil  can,  another  a  basket  of  dung-cakes 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  339 

tainly,  is  not  least  impressive.  Long  before  Gautama,  seeking  truth, 
journeyed  thither,  multitudes  of  Hindus  had  been  absolved  of  their 
sins  at  the  foot  of  this  village  on  the  Ganges.  To  the  bathing  ghats 
and  shrines  of  the  Brahmin  the  Buddhist  added  his  temples.  Then 
came  the  Mohammedan  conquerors  with  new  beauties  of  Saracenic 
architecture.  In  the  toleration  of  British  rule  Jain  and  Sihk  and  even 
Christian  have  contributed  their  share  to  this  composite  monument 
to  the  world's  religions.  Through  it  all,  the  city  has  grown  without 
rhyme  or  reason.  Temples,  monasteries,  shrines,  kiosks,  topes, 
mosques,  chapels  have  vied  with  each  other  and  the  huts  and  shops 
of  the  inhabitants  in  a  wild  scramble  for  place  close  to  the  absolving 
waters  of  the  Ganges,  until  the  crescent-shaped  "  Kashi "  of  to-day 
lies  heaped  upon  itself,  as  different  from  the  orderly  cities  of  the  west- 
ern world  as  a  mass  of  football  players  in  hot  scrimmage  from  a  com- 
pany of  soldiers.  From  the  very  midst  of  the  architectural  scramble, 
giving  center  to  the  picture,  rise  two  slender  minarets  of  the  Mosque 
Aurunzebe,  needing  but  a  connecting  bar  to  suggest  two  goal  posts. 

The  train  rumbled  across  the  railway  bridge  and  halted  on  the 
edge  of  the  city.  No  engineering  genius  could  have  surveyed  a  line 
through  it.  We  plunged  into  the  riot  of  buildings  and  were  at  once 
engulfed  in  a  whirlpool  of  humanity.  Damascus  and  Cairo  had 
seemed  over-populated;  compared  with  Benares,  they  were  deserted. 
Where  the  chattering  stream  flowed  against  us,  we  advanced  by  short 
spurts,  pausing  for  breath  when  we  were  tossed  aside  into  the  wares 
of  bawHng  shopkeepers,  or  against  a  fagade  decorated  with  bois  de 
vache.  Worshipers,  massed  before  outdoor  shrines,  blocked  the  way 
as  effectually  as  stone  walls.  Cross  currents  of  pilgrims,  bursting 
forth  from  Jain  or  Hindu  temple,  bore  us  away  with  them  through 
side  streets  we  had  not  chosen  to  explore.  Pilgrims  there  were  every- 
where, of  every  caste,  of  every  shade,  from  the  brass-tinted  hillman 
to  the  black  Madrasi,  representatives  of  all  the  land  of  India  from  the 
snow  line  of  the  Himalayas  to  Tuticorin  by  the  sea.  Among  them  the 
inliabitants  of  Benares  were  a  mere  handful. 

Sacred  bulls  shouldered  us  aside  with  utter  indifference  to  what  had 
once  been  the  color  of  our  skins.  Twice  the  vast  bulk  of  a  holy 
elephant  loomed  up  before  us.  On  the  friezes  and  roofs  of  Hindu 
temples  monkeys  wearing  glittering  and  apparently  costly  rings  on 
every  finger  scampered  and  chattered  with  an  audacity  that  to  the  na- 
tives was  an  additional  proof  of  their  divinity. 


340      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

We  had  been  buffeted  back  and  forth  through  the  tortuous  chan- 
nels for  more  than  an  hour  when  a  frenzied  beating  of  drums  and  a 
waiHng  of  pipes  bore  down  upon  us. 

"  Religious  procession ! "  screamed  Marten,  dragging  me  after  him 
up  the  steps  of  a  Jain  temple.  "  We  '11  have  to  hang  out  here  till  it 
gets  by.    How  's  them  fer  glad  rags  ?  " 

The  paraders  were,  indeed,  attired  in  astonishing  costumes,  even 
for  India.  The  street  below  us  was  quickly  filled  with  a  screaming 
of  colors  no  less  discordant  than  the  harrowing  "  music  "  to  which  a 
thousand  marchers  kept  uncertain  step.  Some  of  the  fanatics,  not 
satisfied  with  an  exaggeration  of  native  garb,  masqueraded  in  the 
most  fantastic  of  guises,  among  which  the  most  amusing  was  that  of 
a  bold  fellow  burlesquing  a  sahib.  He  was  "  made  up  "  to  empha- 
size the  white  man's  idiosyncrasies,  and  marched  in  a  hollow  square 
where  no  point  could  be  hidden  from  the  view  of  the  delighted  by- 
standers. To  the  Hindu,  he  is  an  ass  who  wears  jacket  and  trousers 
in  preference  to  a  cool,  flowing  robe;  the  tenderness  of  sahib  feet  is 
the  subject  of  many  a  vulgar  jest.  The  burlesquer  was  attired  in  a 
suit  of  shrieking  checks  that  fitted  his  slender  form  as  tightly  as  a 
glove;  on  his  feet  were  shoes  with  great  projecting  soles  in  which  he 
might  have  walked  with  impunity  on  red-hot  irons.  His  flour-pow- 
dered face  was  far  paler  than  that  of  the  latest  subaltern  to  arrive 
from  England;  over  his  long  hair  he  wore  a  close-cropped  wig  of 
sickly  yellow  hue;  and  his  tropical  helmet  would  have  given  ample 
shade  for  four  men.  He  was  smoking  a  homemade  imitation  of  a 
"  bulldog "  pipe,  and  swung  a  small  fence  rail  jauntily  back  and 
forth  as  he  walked.  Every  dozen  yards  he  feigned  to  fall  into  a  rage 
and,  dancing  about  in  a  simulation  of  insanity,  rushed  upon  the  sur- 
rounding paraders,  striking  wildly  about  him  with  his  clenched  fists. 
The  fact  that  he  never  opened  his  lips  during  this  performance 
brought  great  delight  to  the  natives,  accustomed  to  give  vent  to  their 
anger  by  taxing  their  vocal  organs  to  the  utmost. 

There  were  other  suggestions  of  the  Hindu's  hatred  of  his  rulers, 
the  boldest  of  which  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  procession.  Two 
natives  bore  aloft  a  rough  wooden  cross  on  which  a  monkey  was 
crucified  —  with  cords  rather  than  with  nails.  How  widespread  are 
the  teachings  of  Christian  missionaries  was  suggested  by  the  fact  that 
the  most  illiterate  countryman  "  saw  the  point,"  and  twisted  his  lean 
features  into  the  ugly  grimace  that  is  the  low-caste  Hindu's  manner 
of  expressing  mirth. 


m- 


I 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  341 

We  fought  our  way  onward  to  the  center  of  the  town  and  descended 
a  great  stone  stairway  beneath  the  slender  minarets.  Up  and  down 
the  embankment  groups  of  thinly-clad  pilgrims,  dripping  from  their 
ablutions,  smoked  vile-smelling  cigarettes  in  the  shadow  of  temple 
walls  or  purchased  holy  food  at  the  straw-thatched  booths.  Here 
and  there  members  of  the  most  despised  caste  in  India  stood  before 
ponderous  scales,  weighing  out  the  wood  that  must  be  used  in  the 
cremation  of  the  Hindu  dead  who  hope  to  attain  salvation.  The  ab- 
horrence of  their  fellow-beings  hung  lightly  upon  the  wood-sellers, 
tempered  as  it  was  by  the  enjoyment  of  a  monopoly  compared  with 
which  an  American  trust  is  a  benevolent  institution. 

In  the  bathing  ghats,  segregation  of  sexes  prevailed.  The  men  wore 
loin  clothes,  the  women  white  winding  sheets  through  which  the  con- 
tour and  hue  of  their  brown  bodies  shone  plainly  as  they  rose  from 
the  water.  From  time  to  time  bands  of  natives,  covered  with  the  dust 
of  travel,  tumbled  down  the  stairways  and  plunged  eagerly  into  the 
purging  river.  There  is  no  sin  so  vile,  says  the  Hindu,  that  it  cannot 
be  washed  away  in  the  Ganges  at  the  foot  of  Benares.  Let  us  hope 
so,  for  its  waters  certainly  have  no  other  virtues.  Gladly  would  I, 
for  one,  bear  away  any  portable  burden  of  peccadillos  in  preference  to 
descending  into  that  fever-infected  flow  of  mud.  A  ray  of  sunlight 
will  not  pass  through  a  wineglassful  of  Ganges  water.  Yet  pil- 
grims not  only  splashed  about  in  it,  ducking  their  heads  beneath  the 
surface  and  dashing  it  over  their  faces,  they  rinsed  their  mouths  in 
it,  scraped  their  tongues  with  sticks  dipped  in  it,  spat  it  out  in  great 
jets,  as  if  bent  on  dislodging  some  tenacious  sin  from  between  their 
back  molars. 

Our  circuit  of  the  city  brought  us  back  to  the  station  long  enough 
before  train  time  to  give  opportunity  for  a  duty  that  falls  often  to 
the  roadster  in  India, —  a  general  "  wash  up."  Twice  that  day  we 
had  been  taken  for  Eurasians.  Benares  ends  abruptly  at  the  railway 
line ;  beyond,  stretches  a  flat,  monotonous  landscape  of  arid,  unpeopled 
moorland.  Armed  with  a  two-pice  lump  of  soap  of  the  hue  of  maple 
sugar,  we  slid  down  the  steep  bank  below  the  railway  bridge  in  an 
avalanche  of  sand  and  rubble.  Once  there,  Marten  decided  that  he 
was  "  too  tired  "  to  turn  dhoby,  and  stretched  out  in  the  shade  of  the 
bank.  I  approached  the  stream,  sinking  halfway  to  my  knees  in  the 
slime.  There  would  have  been  no  Indian  impropriety  in  disrobing  at 
once,  but  there  would  certainly  have  been  a  sadly  sunburned  sahib 
ten  minutes   afterward.     Ordinary   beachcombers,   like   my   compan- 


342      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ion,  being  possessed  of  but  two  cotton  garments,  must  have  retired 
unlaundered  or  blistered.  I,  however,  was  no  ordinary  vagabond. 
My  wardrobe  included  three  pieces.  It  was  the  simplest  matter  in 
the  world,  therefore,  to  scrub  the  jacket  while  wearing  the  shirt  and 
the  shirt  while  wearing  the  jacket,  and  to  wrap  the  garment  de 
luxe  around  my  legs  while  I  soaked  the  third  in  the  accumulation  of 
Hindu  sins. 

"  Say,  mate,"  drawled  Marten,  while  I  daubed  my  trousers  with  the 
maple-sugar  soap,  "  you  '11  sure  go  to  heaven  fer  scrubbin'  your  rags 
in  that  mud.  There  's  always  a  bunch  of  Hindu  gods  hangin'  around 
here.  I  don't  want  to  disturb  a  honest  laborin'  man,  o'  course,  but 
I  'd  be  so  lonesome  if  you  was  gone  that  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  you  that 
there  's  one  comin'  to  take  you  to  heaven  now,  an'  if  you  're  finished 
with  livin' — " 

I  looked  up  suddenly.  Barely  ten  feet  away  tne  ugly  snout  of  a 
crocodile  was  moving  towards  me. 

"  Stand  still !  "  shouted  Marten,  as  I  struggled  to  pull  my  legs  from 
the  clinging  mud.  "  He  's  a  god,  I  tell  you.  Besides,  he  's  probably 
hungry.     Don't  be  so  damn  selfish." 

The  trouser,  well  aimed,  ended  his  speech  abruptly  as  I  reached 
dry  land.  I  worked,  thereafter,  with  wide-open  eyes;  and  before 
the  task  was  ended,  caught  sight  of  no  less  than  fourteen  of  the  river 
gods  of  India. 

We  regained  the  station  in  time  for  the  train  to  Moghul  Serai,  and, 
catching  the  northwest  express,  arrived  in  Allahabad  late  at  night. 
The  Strangers'  Rest,  vagabonds'  retreat  a  half  mile  from  the  station, 
was  long  since  closed ;  but  the  Irish  superintendent  was  a  light  sleeper, 
and  we  were  soon  weighing  down  two  charpoys  under  the  trees  of  the 
inner  courtyard. 

The  jangling  of  the  breakfast  bell  awakened  us.  The  Allahabad 
**  Rest "  was  famed  far  and  wide  for  its  "  European  chow."  All 
through  the  night  we  had  embraced  ourselves  in  joyful  anticipation 
of  reviving  our  flagging  memories  on  the  subject  of  the  taste  of 
meat.  Marten  had  even  dared  to  dream  a  wondrous  dream,  wherein 
he  had  pursued  a  Gargantuan  beefsteak  as  broad  as  the  arid  plain 
below  Benares,  in  thickness  like  unto  a  native  hut,  across  half  the 
land  of  India,  only  to  wake  as  he  was  falling  upon  it  in  the  foothills 
of  the  Himalayas. 

"  An'  the  bloomin'  thing  was  steamin'  hot,"  he  driveled,  as  we  raced 
for  the  dining-room  with  a  mob  of  ordinarily  phlegmatic  roadsters, 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  343 

"  an'  the  juice  was  runnin'  out  all  over  the  fields" — we  dropped  into 
places  at  the  table  — "  an'  it  was  that  bloody  rare  that  —  ah  —  er — 
^vha  —  what  the  devil 's  this  ? "  he  gasped,  pointing  at  the  plate  before 
him. 

"  Eh  ?  "  cried  the  superintendent,  from  the  doorway. 
''  I  was  askin',"  murmured  Marten,  "  what  kind  o'  meat  this  might 
be." 

"That?"  smiled  our  portly  host.  "Why,  'tis  dhried  fish,  to  be 
sure.    The  day  's  Good  Friday,  you  '11  be  remimberin'." 

So  we  were  glad  rather  than  sorry  that  the  piety  of  the  English 
rector,  to  whom  that  power  was  deputed,  forbade  him  issuing  tickets 
to  stranded  seamen  until  the  next  day. 

Nothing  short  of  a  promise  to  set  up  a  bottle  of  arrack  would 
have  enticed  another  sojourner  at  the  Rest  outside  its  shady  grove. 
I  set  off  to  explore  the  city  of  Allah  alone.  Life  moved  sluggishly  in 
its  broad,  straight  streets;  for  the  day's  inactivity  of  Europeans  and 
Eurasians  had  clogged  the  wheels  of  industry.  Lepers  swarmed  under 
ihe  trees  along  the  boulevard  passing  the  Rest  —  lepers  male  and  fe- 
male, without  fingers,  or  lips,  or  eyeUds,  some  with  stumps  for  feet, 
and  others  with  great  running  sores  where  their  faces  should  have 
been.  Still  others  had  lost  their  vocal  cords,  so  that  their  speech, 
as  they  crept  close  up  behind"  the  passing  sahib  to  solicit  alms,  was 
an  inarticulate  gurgle. 

Great  credit  should  be  given  to  the  Mohammedan  women  of  Alla- 
liabad  and  beyond,  who,  with  no  Worth  to  do  them  service,  display 
individuality  of  dress  sufficient  to  attract  a  flagging  attention.  To 
be  exact,  it  isn't  a  dress  at  all,  being  merely  a  jacket  and  a  pair  of 
thin,  cotton  trousers,  full  above  the  knee  and  close-fitting  below,  like 
riding-breeches.  The  costume  originated  with  its  wearers,  no  doubt. 
Far  be  it  from  me,  at  least,  to  accuse  them  of  copying  the  garb  of 
the  sahibs  who  gallop  along  the  broader  thoroughfares. 

We  slept  again  under  the  spreading  trees,  and  might  have  slept 
well,  had  not  the  spot  chanced  to  be  the  rendezvous  of  all  the  mos- 
quitoes of  the  northwest  provinces.  With  morning  our  host  marched 
away  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  wandering  minstrels  to  carry  enter- 
tainment to  the  English  rector.  The  performance  endured  beyond 
all  precedent.  One  by  one  the  artists  straggled  back  to  the  grove, 
some  glad,  some  sorrowful;  and  among  the  latter  was  Marten.  In 
accordance  with  our  plan  to  continue  towards  the  Punjab,  he  had 
promised  to  send  the  "  Guise ppe  Sarto  "  from  the  harbor  of  Bom- 


344      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

bay,  where  it  had  ridden  at  anchor  since  the  day  that  we  entered 
Hoogly,  to  Kurachee  at  the  mouth  of  the  Indus.  The  classic  tale 
had  aroused  the  old-time  sympathy;  the  rector  had  Hstened  gravely; 
the  story  must  surely  have  brought  its  reward  had  not  the  teller,  too 
cock-sure  of  his  lines,  forgotten  momentarily  the  contemplated  re- 
vision of  the  text  and  blurted  out  the  familiar  name  so  distinctly  that 
correction  was  impossible.  He  had  drawn,  therefore,  when  the  di- 
vision of  lots  fell,  a  ticket  to  Bombay. 

There  were  two  reasons  why  Marten  had  no  desire  to  visit  that  port : 
first,  because  I  had  refused  to  accompany  him;  second,  because  the 
commissioners  of  that  uncharitable  presidency  have  contracted  the 
reprehensible  habit  of  committing  to  the  workhouse  the  penniless 
white  man  taken  within  their  borders.  But  the  die  was  cast.  The 
law  required  that  the  holder  of  a  government  ticket  depart  by  the 
first  train,  and  even  had  it  not,  there  was  no  one  else  in  Allahabad 
to  whom  to  appeal.  The  grief  of  the  former  pearl  fisher  was  acute, 
lachrymose,  in  fact.  To  dry  his  tears  I  consented  to  accompany  him 
to  the  capital  of  the  next  district. 

We  took  leave  of  the  Irishman  as  darkness  fell  and  before  the 
night  was  well  on  its  wane  had  sought  a  sharp-cornered  repose  at  the 
station  of  Jubbulpore.  The  commissioner  of  that  district,  moved  by 
a  more  carefully  constructed  tale,  granted  the  stranded  mariner  a 
ticket  to  Jhansi.  The  route  mapped  out  for  him  led  southward  to 
the  junction  with  the  main  line,  which  I,  anxious  to  explore  a  terri- 
tory off  the  beaten  track,  chose  to  gain  by  an  unimportant  branch. 
We  separated,  therefore,  promising  to  meet  again  next  day  at  Bina. 

Returning  northward  to  the  village  of  Khatni,  I  spent  the  night 
on  a  station  settee,  and  boarded  the  mixed  train  that  sallies  forth 
daily  from  that  rural  terminal.  It  was  in  charge  of  a  Eurasian  driver 
and  guard,  of  whom  the  latter  gave  me  full  possession  of  a  roomy 
compartment  adjoining  his  own.  The  country  was  rolling  in  out- 
line, a  series  of  broad  ridges  across  which  the  train  rose  and  fell  reg- 
ularly. To  right  and  left  stretched  jungle,  uninhabited  and  appar- 
ently impenetrable.  The  villages  rarely  comprised  more  than  a  clus- 
ter of  huts  behind  the  railway  bungalow,  to  which  the  inhabitants 
flocked  to  greet  the  arrival  of  the  train,  the  one  event  that  enlivened 
a  monotonous  daily  existence.  Now  and  then  I  caught  sight  of  some 
species  of  deer  bounding  away  through  the  low  tropical  shrubbery, 
and  once  of  that  dreaded  beast  of  India  —  a  tiger.  He  was  a  gaunt, 
agile  creature,  more  dinghy  in  color  than  those  in  captivity,  who  ad- 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  345 

vanced  rapidly,  yet  almost  cautiously,  clearing  the  low  jungle  growth 
in  long,  easy  bounds.  On  the  track  he  halted  a  moment,  gazed  scorn- 
fully at  the  sluggard  locomotive,  then  sprang  into  the  thicket  and  was 
gone. 

We  halted  at  midday  at  the  station  of  Damoh.  Certain  that  my 
private  carriage  could  not  be  invaded  in  a  district  where  Europeans 
were  almost  unknown,  I  left  my  knapsack  on  a  bench  and  retreated 
to  the  station  buffet.  At  my  exit  a  strange  sight  greeted  my  eyes. 
Before  the  door  of  my  compartment  was  grouped  the  population  of 
Damoh.  Inside  stood  a  native  poHceman,  in  khaki  and  red  turban. 
Under  one  arm  he  held  the  guidebook,  a  tobacco  box,  a  pipe,  a  spool 
of  film,  and  the  leaf-wrapped  lunch  that  had  made  up  the  contents  of 
my  knapsack.  The  sack  itself,  a  half-dozen  letters,  and  the  kodak- 
cover  lay  on  the  floor  under  his  feet.  By  some  stroke  of  genius  he 
had  found  the  springs  that  released  the  back  of  the  kodak,  and 
having  laid  that  on  the  bench  beside  him,  was  complacently  turning 
the  screw  that  unwound  the  ruined  film,  to  the  delight  of  his  admir- 
ing fellow-countrymen. 

The  natives  fled  at  my  approach,  and  the  ofiicer,  dropping  my  pos- 
sessions on  the  floor,  dashed  for  the  shelter  of  the  station-master's 
office.  I  followed  after  to  make  complaint,  and  came  upon  him  cow- 
ering behind  a  heap  of  baggage,  his  hands  tightly  clasped  over  the 
badge  that  bore  his  number. 

"  He  says,"  interpreted  the  Eurasian  agent,  when  I  had  demanded 
an  explanation,  "  that  it  is  his  duty  to  look  in  empty  compartments 
for  lost  articles,  but  that  he  has  not  taken  the  littlest  thing,  not  even 
a  box  of  matches,  and  asks  that  you  forgive  him.  If  you  cannot  put 
the  queer  machine  together  again,  he  will." 

"  These  fellows  are  always  prying  into  things  like  monkeys,"  put 
in  the  guard,  "  I  'd  make  complaint  to  the  inspector  at  Bina." 

A  change  came  over  the  face  of  the  policeman.  Till  then  he  had 
been  the  picture  of  contrition ;  now  he  advanced  boldly  and  poured 
forth  a  deluge  of  incomprehensible  lingo. 

"  Why,  what 's  this  ?  "  cried  the  station-master.  "  He  says  you  as- 
saulted him." 

"  Does  he  look  like  it  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  No,"  admitted  the  agent,  "  most  sahibs  leave  marks." 

"Oh!  That's  the  old  trick,"  snorted  the  guard.  "He  under- 
stood the  word  '  inspector '  and  thinks  he  '11  keep  out  of  hot  water  by 
making  a  counter  accusation." 


346      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  I  don't  believe  the  tale/'  said  the  agent,  "  but  he  insists  on  mak- 
ing a  complaint,  and  I  shall  have  to  telegraph  it  to  the  inspector  at 
the  end  of  the  line." 

The  train  went  on.  There  being  no  European  officers  in  the  dis- 
trict I  could  not  be  placed  under  arrest,  but  it  was  not  long  before 
I  found  the  police  drag-net  drawing  close  around  me.  The  first  sta- 
tion beyond  Damoh  was  a  populous  town,  and  among  the  natives  who 
crowded  the  platform  my  attention  was  drawn  to  two  sturdy  fellows 
in  the  garb  of  countrymen  who  elbowed  their  way  through  the  throng 
and  stared  boldly  in  upon  me.  Apparently  they  had  designs  on  my 
depleted  pocketbook,  but,  indifferent  to  so  slight  a  loss,  I  returned 
their  scowls  and  settled  back  in  my  seat.  We  were  well  under  way 
again  when  I  turned  from  my  contemplation  of  the  distant  land- 
scape and  glanced  along  the  swaying  cars.  From  the  next  compart- 
ment, his  eyes  glued  on  my  own,  hung  one  of  the  countrymen.  An- 
noyed, I  moved  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  car.  The  head  and  shoul- 
ders of  the  second  rascal  protruded  from  the  window  ahead.  The  sit- 
uation burst  upon  me.  These,  then,  were  "  plain-clothes  guys  "  as- 
signed the  duty  of  shadowing  me  to  my  destination. 

As  long  as  the  journey  lasted,  the  detectives  sat  motionless  in  their 
places,  their  heads  twisted  halfway  round  on  their  shoulders,  star- 
ing like  observant  owls  at  the  only  means  of  exit  from  my  compart- 
ment. I  descended  at  Bina  as  twilight  fell,  and  they  hung  on  my  heels 
until  I  had  been  accosted  by  a  young  Englishman  in  khaki  uniform. 

"  The  station-master  at  Damoh,"  began  the  Briton,  "  reports  that 
you  assaulted  a  native  officer.     Will  you  come  with  me,  please  ?  " 

He  led  the  way  to  the  waiting-room,  and,  producing  a  notebook, 
jotted  down  my  story. 

"  He  needed  a  good  drubbing  whether  he  got  it  or  not,"  he  admit- 
ted, when  I  had  concluded.  **  Unfortunately  I  cannot  release  you  un- 
til the  inspector  comes." 

"When  will  that  be?" 

"  To-morrow,  probably,  on  this  same  train." 

"  But  I  can't  afford  to  be  delayed  twenty-four  hours,"  I  protested. 
**  I  'm  short  on  cash  and  I  Ve  got  to  meet  a  mate." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  returned  the  Englishman,  "  but  as  deputy  inspector 
I  have  no  power  in  the  matter.  I  do  not  want  to  lock  you  up  if  you 
will  promise  not  to  leave  the  station  precincts.  You  may  sleep  in  the 
first-class  waiting-room." 

Whether  he  relied  entirely  on  my  promise,  I  did  not  learn.     At 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  347 

any  rate,  he  ordered  the  agent  to  arrange  a  cane  couch  for  me,  and 
not  long  after  his  departure  a  coolie  arrived  from  the  barracks  with 
such  a  dinner  as  I  did  not  often  enjoy  during  my  days  of  liberty. 
The  next  day  the  fare  was  even  more  generous,  and  was  supple- 
mented by  several  delicacies  which  the  Eurasian  guard  sent  from  the 
messroom  of  the  railway  bungalow.  The  latter  had  not  neglected 
to  make  public  my  story,  and  every  hour  brought  Englishmen,  Eura- 
sians, or  babus  to  express  their  conviction  that  I  was  being  grossly 
mistreated.  Among  them  was  a  leathery  little  Irishman,  a  traveling 
photographer  with  headquarters  in  Agra,  and  a  discussion  of  our  com- 
mon interests  ended  with  his  writing  me  a  "  chit "  to  his  employer, 
whom  he  represented  as  in  need  of  an  assistant. 

The  deputy  inspector  hovered  about  the  station,  and  during  one 
of  his  visits  I  asked  for  a  book  with  which  to  while  away  the  time. 
He  must  have  pondered  long  over  the  shelves  in  his  bungalow  in  quest 
of  a  volume  that  would  appeal  to  a  sailor  of  slight  education,  of 
American  nationality,  who  was  ostensibly  suffering  severe  depression 
of  spirits.  His  choice  demonstrated  the  unfailing  perspicacity  of  the 
Briton.  He  came  back  bearing  a  thumb-worn  copy  of  "  Bill  Nye's 
History  of  the  United  States." 

With  nightfall  came  the  inspector  to  listen  to  a  repetition  of  my 
story. 

"  Your  account,"  he  announced,  *'  agrees  entirely  with  that  of  the 
Eurasian  guard.     I  shall  release  you  at  once." 

An  hour  afterward  I  left  Bina  and,  halting  at  Jhansi  and  the  free 
state  of  Gwalior,  arrived  in  Agra  three  days  later.  Until  then  I  had 
fancied  that  Marten  had  passed  me  during  the  night  of  my  captivity. 
But  as  I  alighted,  I  was  surprised  to  see,  in  a  letter-rack  such  as  is 
maintained  at  most  Indian  stations  for  the  convenience  of  travelers, 
a  post  card  across  which  my  name  was  misspelled  in  bold,  blue  let- 
ters.    On  the  back  was  scrawled  this  simple  message :  — 

GoDAWARA,  India  —  April  25th. 
Felow  beechcomer:  — 

Missed  the  train  to  Bina  becaze  I  knoked  the  block  off  a  nigger  polisman. 
They  draged  me  down  hear  and  the  comish  finned  me  15  dibs  and  then  payed 
the  fine  and  put  me  rite  as  far  as  Agra.     I  wil  pick  you  up  ther  on  the  27th. 

yours, 

Busted  Head. 

The  twenty-seventh  was  past.  The  ex-pearl-fisher  had  evidently 
gone  on,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 


348      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Reduced  now  to  a  handful  of  coppers,  I  lost  no  time  in  seeking 
out  the  photographer  to  whom  my  **  chit "  was  addressed.  He  was  a 
Parsee  of  slender  build,  dressed  in  European  garb,  the  trousers  of 
which,  fitting  his  long  legs  all  too  snugly,  gave  him  a  strangely  spider- 
like appearance.  A  small  velvet  skull-cap,  embroidered  in  red  and 
pink  with  representations  of  flowers  and  leaves,  sat  imperturbable 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  holding  its  place  with  every  movement  of 
his  lithe  body  as  if  nailed  there.  Suggestion  was  there  none,  in  his 
mien,  of  strange  religious  beliefs.  His  English  was  fluent,  his  man- 
ner affable,  yet  tempered  with  a  ceremonial  coldness,  as  of  one  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  of  being  ever  on  his  dignity. 

We  came  quickly  to  terms.  The  shop,  well  stocked  with  photo- 
graphic supplies,  was  in  charge  of  a  Eurasian  clerk,  and  my  new 
duties  confined  me  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the  dark-room.  He 
who  would  taste  purgatory  has  but  to  find  employment  in  a  pho- 
tographer's workshop  in  India.  As  the  door  closed  behind  me,  I 
muttered  a  determination  to  hold  my  new-found  position  for  a  fort- 
night. Before  the  first  set  of  plates  had  been  transferred  to  the  fix- 
ing-bath,  the  resolution  weakened;  when  an  hour  had  passed,  a  voice 
within  me  whispered  that  three  days'  wages  would  be  amply  sufficient 
for  all  present  needs.  There  were  new  elements  of  the  photographer's 
craft  to  be  learned  in  the  Parsee's  laboratory,  too,  such  as  the  use  of 
ice  in  every  process,  and  during  the  learning  I  conducted,  all  unin- 
tentionally, a  series  of  researches  in  the  action  of  NaCl  on  the  various 
chemicals  in  my  charge.  In  short,  the  stoke-hole  of  an  ocean-liner 
would  have  been  hibernal  by  comparison.  My  employer's  tap  on  the 
door,  with  the  suggestion  that  it  was  time  to  set  up  the  shutters,  did 
not  need  to  be  repeated. 

Once  in  the  street,  the  Parsee  hailed  a  Hindu  hansom,  a  sort  of 
stranded  ferryboat  set  up  on  two  circular  table-tops  and  attached  to 
what  had  once  been  a  pair  of  bullocks,  and  we  were  driven  off.  That 
we  reached  the  residence  of  my  employer  before  morning  and  in  good 
health  was  reason  for  self-congratulation,  for  it  was  nearly  a  mile 
distant.  The  axle-grooves  in  the  misapplied  table-tops  were  as  near 
the  center  as  if  they  had  been  bored  by  a  musket  in  the  hands  of  a 
blind  man  at  one  hundred  paces.  The  driver  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty inspired  to  action,  and  was  totally  incapable  of  transmitting  such 
inspiration  to  his  animals.  Along  the  boulevard  the  craft  moved  at 
the  cumbersome  gait  of  a  land  crab ;  in  the  rougher  streets  it  pitched 
and  rolled  like  a  derelict  in  the  trough  of  the  waves. 


I 


The  Taj   Mahal,  Agra,  India 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  349 

The  Parsee,  accustomed  to  this  fancied  solution  of  the  transit  prob- 
lem of  Agra,  fell  into  that  half  doze  of  dreamy  contentment  typical  of 
the  home-coming  suburbanite  the  world  over,  and  roused  himself 
only  when  the  rattle  of  the  cobble  stones  of  his  own  courtyard  dis- 
turbed his  ruminations.  We  alighted  equi-distant  from  two  squat 
bungalows,  of  which  the  fire-worshiper  gave  me  leave  to  enter  the 
former,  ere  he  retired  to  the  bosom  of  his  family  in  the  other.  My 
new  home  housed  a  band  of  servants  and  a  lodger.  The  deep  ve- 
randa was  curtained  by  a  network  of  creeping  vines  that  the  drought 
had  touched  with  autumn  colors.  As  I  mounted  the  steps,  a  long- 
drawn  groan  sounded  from  the  semi-darkness,  and  I  was  greeted  by 
the  sight  of  the  lodger  tossing  deliriously  on  one  of  two  dilapidated 
willow  armchairs  with  which  the  piazza  was  furnished.  A  fever 
raged  within  him  —  the  first  symptoms,  he  was  convinced,  of  the 
plague  that  would  carry  him  off  before  dawn.  Plainly  he  did  not 
care  to  go.  The  charpoys  within  were  all  occupied.  I  preempted 
the  unoccupied  chair  and  listened  through  the  night  to  the  Eurasian's 
frenzied  endeavor  to  frighten  off  the  grim  visitor. 

To  the  grief  of  the  Parsee,  I  fled  from  his  sweat-box  the  next  after- 
noon, and,  having  visited  Agra  and  her  incomparable  Taj  Mahal,  took 
night  train  to  Delhi.  The  traveler  who  journeys  slowly  north- 
ward through  this  land  of  strange  scenes  and  superstitions  loses 
sight,  oftentimes,  of  the  fact  that  no  other  political  entity  includes 
within  its  borders  so  many  heterogeneous  elements.  India  is  not  the 
dwelling  place  of  one  people.  The  Punjabi  of  the  north  differs  as 
much  from  the  Maduran  as  the  Scotchman  from  the  Neapolitan. 
The  hillman  and  the  man  of  the  plains  prove  on  close  acquaintance 
to  have  little  more  in  common  than  their  brown  skins  and  their  misery. 
Shake  your  fist  at  a  Madrasi  and  he  will  take  to  his  heels.  Deny  a 
Gurka  the  privilege  of  fighting  and  you  have  robbed  him  of  all  that 
makes  life  worth  hving. 

The  casual  tourist,  noting  only  slight  changes  from  day  to  day,  may 
not  realize  this  diversity  of  population.  But  let  him  push  on  to 
Shahjehanabad,  the  city  of  King  John,  which  they  who  dwell  else- 
where call  Delhi.  Here  is  a  different  world,  an  Arab  world  almost, 
to  remind  him  that  Islam  once  held  vast  sway  in  the  land  of  Hind. 
Easily  might  he  fancy  himself  again  in  Damascus.  As  in  "  Shaam," 
here  are  labyrinthian  streets,  each  given  up  to  a  single  trade.  In 
shaded  nooks  and  corners  the  black-bearded  scribe  plies  his  art ;  from 
many  a  minaret  sounds  the  chant  of  the  muezzin;  the  fez  vies  with 


350      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  turban  for  supremacy.  Lean-faced  Bedouins  and  files  of  cushion- 
shod  camels  bring  with  them  a  suggestion  of  the  wild  sweep  of  the 
desert;  and,  if  another  touch  is  needed,  over  all  hovers  those  crown- 
ing symbols  of  Mohammedan  civilization, —  filth  and  pariah  dogs.      I 

But  with  the  squalor  came  new  privileges  to  sahib  wanderers.  Of 
Mohammedan  eating-shops  there  were  plenty,  and  never  a  protest 
rose  against  me  when  I  paused  to  choose  from  the  steaming  kettles 
framed  in  the  doorway.  The  messes,  if  the  blear-eyed  Islamite  who 
stirred  the  fires  under  them  was  to  be  believed,  contained  no  other 
flesh  than  mutton.  There  were  bones  in  more  than  one  dish  that 
looked  suspiciously  small  for  those  of  the  sheep;  and  the  rabbit  is 
not  indigenous  to  India.  But  quien  sabe  ?  The  light-skinned  vagrant 
is  too  thankful,  certainly,  for  an  opportunity  to  satisfy  his  carniver- 
ous  tastes  to  appoint  himself  a  committee  of  investigation  or  to  in-  I 
quire  into  the  status  of  the  pure  food  law.  I 

It  was  this  scent  of  a  more  western  world  perhaps,  which  soon 
brought  upon  me  the  realization  that  our  unplanned  excursion  "  up 
country  "  had  carried  me  a  thousand  miles  afield.  I  awoke  one  morn- 
ing resolved  to  turn  eastward  once  more.  Unfortunately  the  turning 
lacked  impetus,  for  in  my  pocket  were  four  lonely  coppers.  A  half- 
day's  search  in  the  native  city  failed  to  bring  to  light  any  demand  for 
white-skinned  labor,  and  I  concluded  to  make  public  my  offer  of  serv- 
ices through  the  district  commissioner. 

The  afternoon  siesta  was  ended  and  the  elite  of  Delhi  were  awak- 
ening to  new  life  when  I  crossed  the  bridge  spanning  the  railway 
yards  and  entered  the  cantonment  and  the  European  section.  Over 
miles  of  rolling  country,  thinly  streaked  by  the  shade  of  those  few  with- 
ered trees  that  had  outlived  the  drought,  were  scattered  the  barracks, 
government  offices,  and  the  bungalows  of  white  residents.  At  the  dis- 
trict court  a  lonely  babu  clerk  welcomed  me  with  the  information  that 
the  government  force  was  enjoying  a  Mohammedan  holiday,  that  the 
next  day  was  sacred  to  some  Hindu  saint  or  sacred  ape,  and  the  third, 
the  Christian  day  of  rest.  The  road  to  the  commissioner's  residence 
passed  those  of  a  score  of  English  officials,  each  situated  in  a  private 
park,  on  the  lodge  gate  of  which  an  ensign  set  forth  the  name  of  the 
owner  and  the  titles  which  a  grateful  monarch  permitted  him  to  at- 
tach thereto.  An  hour  beyond  the  court,  I  was  confronted  by  the 
astonishing  pedigree  of  the  ruler  of  the  district  and  turned  aside  with 
bated  breath  into  his  estate.  The  honorable  commissioner  sahib  was 
not  at  home,  asserted  the  native  butler  who  was  whitewashing  can- 


A  market-day  in  Delhi,  India.     Many  castes  of  Hindus 
and  Mohammedans  are  represented 


The  Hindu  street-sprinkler  does  not  lay  much  dust 


T 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  351 

vas  shoes  on  the  back  veranda ;  he  had  gone  to  the  honorable  English^ 
men's  club. 

A  score  of  smart  traps  and  dog  carts,  in  charge  of  gorgeously  liv- 
eried sais  were  drawn  up  about  the  long,  two-story  club-house.  On 
the  neighboring  courts  four  pairs  of  linen-clad  Englishmen,  sur- 
rounded by  a  select  audience  of  admiring  memsahibs  and  a  hundred 
wondering  servants,  were  playing  tennis  with  that  deliberate,  dis- 
passionate energy  which  the  Briton  of  the  "  clawsses  "  puts  into  every- 
thing from  a  casual  greeting  to  a  suicide.  The  honorable  commis- 
sioner sahib  K.  C.  B.,  M.  A.,  V.  C,  Bart,  etc.,  was  stretched  out  in 
a  reclining  chair  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  club,  his  attention  di- 
vided between  a  cigarette  and  cooling  beverage  and  the  activities 
of  several  other  distinguished  preservers  of  the  alphabet,  who  were 
driving  a  red  and  two  white  balls  about  a  green  table  with  character- 
istic vim  and  vigor.  The  native  who  pointed  out  the  mighty  man 
from  the  shelter  of  a  veranda  fern  refused  in  an  awe-struck  whisper 
to  deliver  my  message  until  I  had  threatened  to  enter  this  sanctum  of 
social  superiority  unannounced.  The  Englishman  bellowed  a  protest 
at  being  disturbed,  but  rose  and  advanced  to  the  door,  glass  in  hand. 

"  I  say,  you  know,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  having  its  domicile  in  the 
pit  of  his  stomach,  "  this  is  n  't  my  office,  my  man.  I  cawn't  be  at- 
tending to  official  duties  day  and  night.  Come  to  the  high-court  to- 
morrow and  I  will  look  into  your  case." 

"  If  any  of  the  gentlemen  inside,  sir,  or  you,  could  put  me  onto  a 
job  where  I  could  earn  the  price  of  a  tick  —  " 

'*  A  job !  In  Delhi  ?  Do  you  fawncy  there  are  full-rigged  ships 
on  the  Jumna  ?  Come  to  my  office  at  ten-thirty  or  eleven  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  But  to-morrow  is  a  holiday." 

"  Hah !     By  Jove,  so  it  is !     Well,  come  to  my  bungalow  instead." 

"  How  about  some  work  about  the  club  ?    Anything  at  all." 

"  See  here,  my  man,"  protested  the  commissioner,  turning  away, 
"  this  is  no  employment  bureau.  I  'm  going  over  for  a  game  of  ten- 
nis and  I  '11  bid  you  good  day." 

"  Then  you  '11  need  someone  to  chase  tennis  balls  for  you,"  I  called 
after  him,  "  I  'm  fairly  fast  on  my  feet." 

"  Chase  tennis  balls !  "  cried  the  governor,  coming  back.  "  Do  you 
mean  you  would  run  around  before  a  crowd  of  native  servants  — 
you  —  a  white  man  —  and  — " 

"Sure.     Won't  you?" 


352      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Eh  —  er  —  wha  —  I  ?  When  I  play  tennis  ?  Why,  of  course,  for 
exercise ;  but  you  were  talking  about  work." 

"  Well,  let 's  call  it  exercise  if  you  'd  rather." 

He  stared  at  me  a  moment  in  silence,  but,  being  an  unusually  quick- 
witted Englishman,  grinned  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder,  "  wait  for  me  over  at  the 
second  court.  I  '11  give  you  a  rupee  a  set  —  in  railway  fare  —  to- 
morrow." 

I  was  perspiringly  engaged  as  official  ball-chaser  of  the  Delhi  ten- 
nis club  until  twilight  put  an  end  to  the  sport,  fagging  three  games 
for  the  commissioner  and  as  many  more  for  his  friends.  The  reward, 
however,  was  not  immediately  forthcoming;  and  I  turned  back  as 
penniless  as  I  had  come,  towards  Delhi,  four  miles  distant.  The 
half-audible  melody  of  a  summer  night  was  broken  now  and  then 
by  the  patter  of  native  feet  along  the  dusty  roadway,  but  I  tramped 
on  for  the  most  part  in  silence.  Once  I  was  startled  by  a  lusty  chorus 
of  male  voices  that  burst  out  suddenly  from  the  darkness  ahead  in 
words  of  my  own  tongue ;  and  a  moment  later  a  squad  of  red-coats, 
bound  barrackward  after  a  merry  afternoon  on  leave,  trooped  by  me, 
arm  in  arm,  singing  at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  "  The  Place  where  the 
Punkah-wallah  Died."  It  is  a  sorrowful  ditty,  this  favorite  ballad 
of  the  Tommy  Atkins  of  India,  bearing  as  it  does  the  final  word  on  the 
infernal  calidity  of  the  peninsula.  The  punkah-wallah  is  as  insensi- 
ble to  the  sun's  rays  as  any  living  mortal,  his  station  is  a  shaded  ve- 
randa, his  labor  the  languid  moving  of  a  weightless  fan.  He  of  the 
ballad  died  of  the  heat  at  his  post. 

Bent  on  finding  lodging  in  a  deserted  coach,  I  slid  down  the  steep 
slope  at  the  edge  of  the  European  section  into  the  broad  railway 
yards.  A  policeman  patrolled  the  bank  above;  detectives  lurked  in 
the  narrow  alleyways  between  the  long  rows  of  side-tracked  cars; 
and  the  headlights  of  puffing  switch-engines  turned  streaks  of  the 
night  into  broad  day.  I  escaped  detection  only  by  vigilant  dodging. 
There  were  goods'  vans  without  number,  an  endless  forest  of  them, 
but  they  were  sealed  or  loaded  with  some  vile-smelling  cargo;  pas- 
senger coach  was  there  none.  I  struck  off  boldly  across  the  tracks 
towards  the  lighted  station.  The  glare  of  a  head-light  was  turned  full 
upon  me  and  without  the  slightest  warning  I  felt  myself  launched 
into  space  so  suddenly  that  I  did  not  lose  my  upright  posture.  The 
sensation  of  falling  seemed  of  several  minutes'  duration,  as  one  ex- 
periences in  a  dream  of  being  thrown  from  a  high  building.     Long 


A  lady  of  quality  of  Delhi  out  for  a  drive 


Hindu  women  drinking  cocoanut-milk 


THE  HEART  OF  INDIA  353 

ifter  the  world  above  had  disappeared,  I  landed  in  utter  darkness,  all 
inhurt  except  for  the  barking  of  my  nose.  Near  at  hand  several  live 
:oals  gleamed  like  watching  eyes.  I  had  walked  into  a  cinder-pit 
)n  the  round-house  track. 

By  dint  of  a  cat-like  spring  from  the  top  of  the  largest  heap  of  ashes, 
[  grasped  the  rail  above  and  drew  myself  out,  to  find  the  engine  crew 
preparing  to  descend  into  the  pit  to  recover  my  body.  The  station 
Dlatform  was  crowded.  Beyond,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  teem- 
ing bazaars,  lay  a  thick-wooded  park  known  as  Queen's  Gardens. 
Placards  on  the  ten-foot  picket  fence  forbade  trespassing  after  night- 
fall; but  though  I  climbed  the  barrier  in  full  sight  of  strollers  and 
shopkeepers  they  held  their  peace,  convinced,  no  doubt,  that  the 
sahib  who  entered  at  that  hour  was  called  thither  by  official  duties. 
I  stretched  out  in  the  long  grass,  but  the  foliage  overhead  offered  no 
such  shelter  as  the  trees  of  equatorial  Ceylon,  and  I  awoke  in  the 
morning  dripping  wet  from  the  fallen  dew. 

Again  that  afternoon  I  did  service  at  the  tennis  court,  earning  two 
rupees  more  than  the  sum  required  to  carry  me  back  to  Calcutta,  and, 
returning  to  the  city,  boarded  the  Saturday  night  express.  The  Eu- 
ropean compartment  was  commodious  and  furnished  not  only  with 
a  wash-room  but  with  two  wooden  shelves  on  which  I  slept  by  night, 
undisturbed  by  Eurasian  collectors.  Following  the  direct  line 
through  Cawnpore  and  Allahabad,  the  train  drew  into  Howrah  on 
Monday  morning.  Not  once  during  the  journey  had  my  box-stall 
been  invaded.  Nine  hundred  and  fifty-four  miles  I  had  traveled,  in 
a  private  car  on  an  express  —  and  the  ticket  had  cost  $2.82!  Truly, 
impecunious  victims  of  the  Wanderlust  should  look  upon  India  as 
the  promised  land. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BEYOND  THE  GANGES 

TWO  hours  after  my  arrival  in  Calcutta  there  entered  the 
American  consulate,  high  up  above  the  Maidan,  a  white  man 
who  should  have  won  the  sympathy  even  of  the  hard-hearted 
manager  who  had  denied  him  admittance  to  the  Sailors'  Home  for 
once  having  deserted  that  institution  for  a  trip  "  up-country."  He 
was  the  possessor  of  a  single  rupee.  His  cotton  garments,  thanks  to 
dhobies,  Ganges  mud,  and  forty-two  hundred  miles  of  third-class 
travel,  were  threadbare  rags  through  which  the  tropical  sun  had  red- 
dened his  once  white  skin.  Under  one  arm  he  carried  a  tattered,  sun- 
burned bundle  of  the  size  of  a  kodak.  European  residents  of  a  far- 
off  district  might  have  recognized  in  him  the  erstwhile  ball-chaser 
of  the  tennis  club  of  Delhi,     In  short,  'twas  I. 

"  Years  before  you  were  born,"  said  the  white-haired  sahib  who 
listened  to  my  story,  "  I  was  American  consul  in  Calcutta,  the  chief 
of  whose  duties  since  that  day  has  been  to  listen  to  the  hard-luck 
tales  of  stranded  seamen.  Times  have  changed,  but  the  stories 
haven't,  and  won't,  I  suppose,  so  long  as  there  are  women  and  beer, 
and  land-sharks  ashore  to  turn  sailors  into  beachcombers." 

As  he  talked  he  filled  out  a  form  with  a  few  strokes  of  a  pen. 

"  This  chit,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  me,  "  is  good  for  a  week  at  the 
Methodist  Seamens'  Institute.  *  You  have  small  chance  of  finding 
work  in  Calcutta,  though  you  might  try  Smith  Brothers,  the  American 
dentists,  down  the  street;  and  you  certainly  won't  sign  on.  But  get 
out  of  town,  somewhere,  somehow,  before  the  week  is  over." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  opening  the  door.  "  Oh,  say,  Mr.  Consul, 
was  there  an  American  fellow  by  name  of  Haywood  in  to  see  you  ?  " 

**  Haywood  ?  "  mused  the  old  man.  "  You  mean  Dick  Haywood, 
that  poor  seaman  who  was  robbed  and  beaten  on  an  Italian  sailing 
vessel,  and  kicked  ashore  here  without  his  wages  ?  " 

"  Why  —  er  —  yes,  sir,  that 's  him,"  I  replied. 

"  Yes,  I  sent  him  away  a  week  ago,  to  Rangoon  as  a  consul  passen- 
ger. But  his  was  an  especially  sad  case.  I  can't  spend  money  on 
every  Tom,  Dick,  and  Har  — " 

354 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  355 

"  Oh !  I  was  n't  askin'  that,  sir,"  I  protested,  closing  the  door  be- 
hind me. 

The  Seamens'  Institute  occupied  the  second  story  —  and  the  roof  — 
of  a  ramshackle  building  in  Lall  Bazaar  street,  just  off  Dalhousie 
square.  Even  about  the  foot  of  the  stairway  hovered  a  scent  of 
squalor  and  compulsory  piety.  On  the  walls  of  the  main  room,  huge 
placards,  illuminated  with  texts  from  the  tale  of  the  prodigal  son 
and  the  stains  of  tobacco  juice,  concealed  the  ravages  which  time  and 
brawlers  had  wrought  on  the  plaster.  Magazines  and  books  of  the 
Sunday-school  species  littered  chairs  and  shelves.  Four  sear-faced 
old  Tars,  grouped  about  a  hunch-backed  table,  played  checkers  as  if 
it  were  an  imperative  duty,  and  cursed  only  in  an  undertone.  For 
the  office  door  stood  open.  I  entered  and  tendered  my  "  chit "  to 
the  Irish  manager. 

"  Ye  're  welcome,"  he  asserted,  as  he  inscribed  my  name  in  a  huge 
volume ;  "  but  mind  ye,  this  is  a  Methodist  insteetootion  and  there  's 
to  be  no  cuss-words  on  the  primaces.     An'  close  the  door  be'ind  ye." 

"  The  cuss-words  ye  've  picked  up,"  growled  a  grizzled  checker- 
player,  when  I  had  complied  with  the  order,  "  ye  must  stow  whilst 
ye  're  here.  But  if  ye  want  to  learn  some  new  wans,  listen  at  yon 
keyhole  when  he  's  workin'  his  figyurs." 

My  "  chit "  entitled  me  to  three  meals  of  forecastle  fare  a  day,  the 
privileges  of  Sunday-school  literature  and  checkerboards,  the  use  of 
a  crippled  cot,  and  the  right  to  listen  each  evening  to  a  two-hour  ser- 
mon in  the  mission  chapfel.  In  the  company  that  gathered  around 
the  messboard  at  noon  were  few  whose  mother-tongue  was  other  than 
my  own.  The  British  Isles  were  ably  represented;  there  were  wan- 
derers from  Australia,  New  Zealand,  Canada,  and  even  two  from 
"  the  States." 

My  compatriots  were  Chicago  youths  whose  partnership  seemed 
singularly  appropriate  —  in  India.  For  the  one  was  named  William 
Curry  and  the  other  Clarence  Rice. 

"  D  'y  'iver  put  yer  two  eyes  on  a  betther  combeenation  thon  thot  to 
be  floatin'  about  this  land  uv  sunburn  an'  nakedness  ? "  demanded 
my  companion  on  the  right.  "  Why,  whin  they  two  be  on  the  beach 
they  'd  'ave  only  to  look  wan  anither  in  the  face  to  git  a  full  meal. 
An'  yit  they  're  after  tellin'  us  they  're  goin'  to  break  it  oop." 

"  You  bet  we  be !  "  ejaculated  Rice,  forcing  an  extraordinary  mouth- 
ful into  one  cheek  to  give  full  play  to  his  tongue.  "  This  bunch  don't 
go  pards  no  more  in  this  man's  land ! " 


356      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Fer  why  ?  "  asked  a  sailor. 

"  Here  's  how,"  continued  Rice.  "  In  Nagpore  the  commissioner 
give  us  a  swell  set-down  an*  everything  looked  good  fer  tickets  to 
Cally.  *  What 's  yer  name  ? '  sez  the  guy  to  Bill,  when  we  come  into 
the  office  after  puttin'  away  the  set-down.  'An*  what's  yours?*  he 
sez  to  me,  after  Bill  had  told  him.  *  Clarence  Rice/  sez  I.  *  Go  on/ 
hollers  the  commish.  *  None  o*  yer  phony  names  on  me !  Ye  're  a  pair 
o'  grafters.  Git  out  o'  this  office  an'  out  o'  Nagpore  in  a  hour  or  I  '11 
have  ye  run  in  —  wid  yer  currie  an'  rice ! '  " 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Curry,  "  that 's  what  they  handed  us  all  the  way 
from  Bombay.     We  was  three  weeks  gettin'  across." 

The  meal  over,  I  descended  to  the  street  with  the  one  self-support- 
ing guest  of  the  mission.  He  was  a  clean-cut,  stocky  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  named  Gerald  James,  from  Perth,  Australia.  Until  the 
outbreak  of  the  Boer  war  he  had  been  a  kangaroo  hunter  in  his  native 
land.  A  year's  service  in  South  Africa  had  aroused  his  latent  Wan- 
derlust and,  once  discharged,  he  had  turned  northward  with  two  com- 
panions. Arrived  in  Calcutta,  his  partners  had  joined  the  police  force, 
while  James,  weary  of  bearing  arms,  had  become  a  salesman  in  a 
well-known  department  store. 

I  disclosed  my  accomplishments  to  his  manager  that  afternoon,  but 
he  did  not  need  to  glance  more  than  once  at  my  tattered  garb  to  be 
certain  that  his  staff  was  complete.  At  their  barracks  the  Australian's 
partners  assured  me  that  their  knowledge  of  the  city  proved  that  the 
only  choice  left  to  a  white  man  stranded  in  Calcutta  was  to  don  a 
police  uniform.  Evidently  they  knew  whereof  they  spoke,  for  em- 
ployers to  whom  I  gained  access  during  the  days  that  followed 
laughed  at  the  notion  of  hiring  white  laborers;  and,  though  scores  of 
ships  lay  at  anchor  in  the  Hoogly,  their  captains  refused  to  listen  even 
to  my  offer  to  work  my  passage.  To  join  the  police  force,  however, 
would  have  meant  a  long  sojourn  in  Calcutta,  and  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  one  might  catch  sight  of  two  coolies  hurrying  across  the  Maidan 
with  the  corpse  of  the  latest  victim  of  the  plague. 

Nothing  short  of  foolhardy  would  have  been  an  attempt  to  cross 
on  foot  the  marshy,  fever-stricken  deltas  to  the  eastward.  One  pos- 
sible escape  from  the  city  presented  itself.  Through  the  Australian 
officers,  whose  beat  was  the  station  platform,  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  Eurasian  collector  who  promised  to  "  set  me  right  with  the  guard  " 
as  far  as  Goalando,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges.     The  signs  portended 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  357 

however,  that  once  arrived  there  I  should  be  in  far  worse  straits  than 
in  the  capital. 

A  chance  meeting  with  a  German  traveler,  who  spoke  no  English, 
raised  my  hoard  to  seven  rupees;  but  the  purchase  of  a  new  roll  of 
films  reduced  it  again  to  less  than  half  that  amount,  and  at  that  low 
level  my  fortunes  remained  for  all  my  efforts.  Sartorially,  I  came  off 
better;  for  the  manager  of  the  mission,  calling  me  into  his  office  one 
morning,  asked  my  assistance  in  auditing  his  account-book,  and  gave 
me  for  the  service  two  duck  suits  left  behind  by  some  former  guest. 
I  succeeded,  too,  in  trading  my  cast-off  garments  and  my  dilapidated 
slippers  for  a  pair  of  shoes  in  good  condition. 

At  the  Institute,  life  moved  smoothly  on.  Each  day  began  with  a 
stroll  along  the  docks  and  two  hours  of  loafing  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Sailors'  Home,  where  seamen,  paying  off,  were  wont  to  display  their 
rolls,  and  captains  had  even  been  known,  in  earlier  days,  to  seek  re- 
cruits. After  dinner,  those  of  long  experience  in  Oriental  lands  re- 
tired to  their  crippled  cots  or  a  shaded  corner  of  the  roof,  while  the 
"  youngsters  "  played  checkers  or  pieced  together  some  story  from 
the  magazine  leaves  that  the  "  boy  "  had  thrown  into  a  hasty  jumble 
before  morning  inspection.  From  four  to  sunset  was  the  period  of 
individual  initiative,  when  the  inventive  set  off  to  try  the  effect  of  a 
new  "  tale  of  woe "  on  beneficent  European  residents.  The  "  old 
hands,"  less  ambitious,  lighted  their  pipes  and  turned  out  for  a 
promenade  around  Dalhousie  square.  Thus  passed  the  sunlit  hours. 
He  who  had  lived  through  one  day  with  the  "  Lall  Bazaar  bunch  " 
knew  all  the  rest. 

But  as  the  days  were  alike,  so  were  the  nights  different.  Each 
evening  of  the  week  was  dedicated  by  long  custom  to  its  own  special 
attraction,  and  newcomers  fell  as  quickly  into  the  routine  as  a  newly 
arrived  prince  into  the  social  swirl  of  the  capital.  On  Monday,  sup- 
per over,  the  company  rambled  off  to  that  section  of  the  Maidan  ad- 
joining the  viceroy's  palace  to  listen  to  the  weekly  band  concert,  dur- 
ing the  course  of  which  the  fortunate  occasionally  picked  up  a  rupee 
that  had  fallen  from  the  pocket  of  some  inebriated  Tommy  Atkins. 
On  Tuesday  the  rendezvous  was  the  Presbyterian  church  at  the 
corner  of  the  square ;  for  it  was  then  and  there  that  charitable  mem- 
sahibs,  incorporated  into  a  "  Ladies'  Aid  Society,"  ended  their  weekly 
sewing-bee  by  distributing  among  the  needy  the  evidences  of  their  skill 
with  the  needle.     Hour  after  hour,  a  long  procession  of  beachcombers 


358      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

filed  up  the  narrow  stairway  of  the  Institute,  to  dump  strange  odds 
and  ends  of  cosmopoHtan  raiment  on  the  floor.  The  night  was  far 
spent  before  the  last  trade  had  been  consummated. 

Wednesday,  however,  was  the  red-letter  date  in  the  Institute  cal- 
endar. On  that  evening  came  the  weekly  "  social."  In  company  with 
an  "  old  timer,"  I  set  off  early  for  the  English  church  far  out  beyond 
Fort  William,  in  the  chapel  of  which  we  were  served  such  unfamiliar 
delicacies  as  ice  cream  —  so  the  donators  dared  to  name  it  —  and 
cake.  The  invitations  were  issued  to  "  all  seamen  on  shore  in  the 
city,"  but  found  acceptance,  of  course,  only  among  the  penniless,  for 
the  arrack-shops  of  Calcutta  are  subject  to  no  early  closing  law. 

In  a  corner  of  the  chapel  sat  several  young  ladies  and  the  junior 
rector  of  the  parish,  a  handsome  English  youth,  announced  on  the 
program  as  the  president  of  the  meeting.  We  were  favored,  however, 
only  with  a  view  of  his  well-tailored  back,  for  the  necessity  of  fur- 
nishing giggle  motifs  for  the  fair  maidens  and  the  consumption  of  in- 
numerable cigarettes  left  him  no  time  for  sterner  duties. 

When  the  last  plate  had  been  licked  clean,  the  gathering  resolved 
itself  into  a  soiree  musicale.  A  snub-nosed  English  miss  fell  upon 
the  piano  beside  the  pulpit,  and  every  ragged  adventurer  who  could 
be  dragged  within  pistol-shot  of  the  maltreated  instrument  inflicted 
a  song  on  his  indulgent  mates.  More  than  once  the  performer,  indif- 
ferent to  memsahib  blushes,  refused  either  to  expurgate  or  curtail  the 
ballad  of  his  choice,  and  it  became  the  duty  of  a  self-appointed  com- 
mittee to  drag  him  back  to  his  seat. 

The  suppression  of  a  grog-shop  ditty  had  been  followed  by  several 
moments  of  fidgety  silence  when  a  chorus  of  hoarse  whispers  near  the 
back  of  the  chapel  relieved  the  general  embarrassment.  A  tow-headed 
beachcomber  —  a  Swede  by  all  seeming  —  was  forced  to  his  feet 
and  advanced  self-consciously  up  the  aisle.  He  was  the  sorriest- 
looking  "  vag  "  in  the  gathering.  His  garb  was  a  strange  collection 
of  tatters,  through  which  his  sunburned  skin  peeped  out  here  and 
there;  and  his  hands,  calloused  evidences  of  self-supporting  days, 
hung  heavily  at  his  sides.  The  noises  thus  far  produced  would  have 
been  prohibited  by  law  in  a  civilized  country,  and  I  settled  back  in 
my  seat  prepared  to  endure  some  new  auditory  atrocity.  The  Swede, 
ignoring  the  stairs  by  which  more  conventional  mortals  mounted, 
stepped  from  the  floor  to  the  rostrum,  and  strode  to  the  piano.  The 
audience,  grinning  nervously,  waited  for  him  to  turn  and  bellow  forth 
some  halyard  chantie.     He  squatted  instead  on  the  recently  vacated 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  359 

stool  and,  running  his  stumpy  fingers  over  the  keys,  fell  to  playing 
with  unusual  skill  —  Mendelssohn's  "  Friihlingslied."  Such  surprises 
befall,  now  and  then,  in  the  vagabond  world.  Its  denizens  are  not 
always  the  unseeing,  unknowing  louts  that  those  of  a  more  laundered 
realm  imagine. 

"  The  Swanee  River "  was  suggested  as  the  Swede  stalked  back 
to  his  seat,  and  the  rafters  rang  with  the  response;  for  there  was 
scarcely  one  of  these  adventurers,  from  every  corner  of  the  globe, 
who  could  not  sing  it  without  prompting  from  beginning  to  end. 
During  the  rendition  of  "  God  Save  the  King,"  the  youthful  rector  tore 
himself  away  from  the  entrancing  maidens,  and  puffing  at  his  fortieth 
cigarette,  shook  us  each  by  the  hand  as  we  passed  out  into  the  night. 
A  pleasant  evening  he  had  spent,  evidently,  in  spite  of  our  presence. 

"  After  all,"  mused  the  "  old  timer,"  as  he  hobbled  across  the 
Maidan  at  my  side,  "  Holy  Joes  is  a  hell  of  a  lot  like  other  people, 
ain't  they?" 

Of  the  entertainments  of  other  evenings  I  may  not  speak  with  au- 
thority, for  on  that  day  I  had  concluded  to  take  the  Eurasian  col- 
lector at  his  word  and  escape  from  Calcutta  before  I  had  out-lived 
my  welcome.  As  I  stretched  out  on  the  roof  of  the  Institute  on  my 
return  from  the  chapel,  the  man  beside  me  rolled  over  on  his  blanket 
and  peered  at  me  through  the  darkness. 

"  That  you,  Franck  ?  "  he  whispered. 

The  voice  was  that  of  James,  the  Australian. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Some  of  the  lads,"  came  the  response,  "  told  me  you  're  going  to 
hit  the  trail  again." 

"  I  'm  off  to-morrow  night." 

"  Where  away  ?  " 

*'  Somewhere  to  the  east." 

The  Australian  fell  silent  a  moment,  and  his  voice  was  apologetic 
when   he   spoke    again. 

"  I  quit  my  job  to-day.  There  's  the  plague,  and  the  summer  com- 
ing on,  and  they  expected  me  to  take  orders  from  a  babu  manager. 
Calcutta  is  no  good.  I  'd  like  to  get  to  Hong  Kong,  but  the  boys  say 
no  beachcomber  can  make  it  in  a  year.  Think  you  '11  come  any- 
where near  there?" 

"  Expect  to  be  there  inside  a  couple  of  months." 

"  How  if  we  go  pards  ?  "  murmured  James.  "  I  've  never  been  on 
the  road  much,  but  I  've  bummed  around  Australia  some  after  kang- 


ta\ 


36o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

aroos,  and  I  Ve  got  fourteen  dibs.     I  '11  put  that  up  for  my  part  of 
the  stake." 

"  Sure,"  I  answered,  for  of  all  the  inmates  of  the  Institute  there 
was  no  one  I  should  sooner  have  chosen  as  a  partner  for  the  rough 
days  to  come,  than  James. 

"  How  '11  we  make  it?  "  he  queried.     "  It 's  a  long  jump." 
"  I  '11  set  you  right  to  Goalando,"  I  replied,  "  and  you  can  fix  me 
up  on  the  Ganges  boat,  if  the  skipper  turns  us  down.     If  we  can  make 
Chittagong  I  think  we  can  beat  it  through  the  jungle  to  Mandalay, 
though  the  boys  say  we  can't.     Then  we  '11  drop  down  to  Rangoon, 
They  say  shipping  is  good  there.     But  let 's  have  it  understood  that 
when  we  hit  Hong  Kong  each  one  goes  where  he  likes." 
"  All  right,"  said  the  Australian,  lying  down  once  more. 
Thursday  passed  quickly  in  the  overhauling  of  our  gear,  and,  having 
stuffed  our  possessions  into  James'  carpetbag,  we  set  off  at  nightfall 
for  the  station;  not  two  of  us,  but  three,  for  Rice  of  Chicago  had  in- 
vited himself  to  accompany  us. 

"  What !  So  many  ?  "  cried  the  guard,  when  the  Eurasian  had  in- 
troduced us,  "  That 's  a  big  bunch  of  deadheads  for  one  trip.  Well, 
pile  on.     I  '11  see  that  the  collectors  slip  you." 

My  companions  returned  to  the  waiting-room  for  the  carpetbag, 
and  I  fell  into  step  with  the  station  policeman,  James'  former  partner. 
The  platform  was  swarming  with  a  cosmopolitan  humanity.  Afghans, 
Sihks,  Bengalis,  Tamils,  and  Mohammedans  strolled  back  and  forth 
or  took  garrulous  leave  of  their  departing  friends  through  the  train 
windows.  Suddenly  my  attention  was  drawn  to  a  priest  of  Buddha 
pushing  his  way  through  the  throng.  The  yellow  robe  is  rare  in 
northern  India,  yet  it  was  something  more  than  the  garment  that  led 
me  to  poke  the  policeman  in  the  ribs.  For  the  arms  and  shoulder  of 
its  wearer  were  white  and  the  face  that  grinned  beneath  the  shaven 
poll  could  have  been  designed  in  no  other  spot  on  earth  than  the 
Emerald  Isle!  * 

"  Blow  me,"  cried  the  officer,  "  if  it  ain't  the  Irish  Buddhist,  the 
bishop  of  Rangoon!  I  met  'im  once  in  Singapore.  Everybody  in 
Burma  knows  'im ;  "  and  he  stepped  forward  with  a  greeting. 

"  Do  I  rimimber  ye?"  chuckled  the  priest,  *' I  do  thot.  Ye  were 
down  in  the  Sthraits.  Bless  me,  and  ye  're  up  here  on  the  force  now, 
eh?     Oo's  yer  frind?" 

"  American,"  said  the  Australian,  "  off  fer  Chittagong  with  a  pard 
o'  mine," 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  361 

"  Foine !  "  cried  the  Irishman.  "  I  'm  bound  the  same.  I  'm  second- 
class,  but  I  '11  see  ye  on  the  boat  the-morrow." 

He  passed  on  and,  as  the  train  started,  James  and  Rice  tumbled  into 
an  empty  compartment  after  me.  The  guard  kept  his  promise  and 
not  once  during  the  night  were  we  disturbed.  When  daylight 
awakened  us  our  car  stood  alone  on  a  side-track  at  the  end  of  the 
line. 

Goalando  was  a  village  of  mud  huts,  perched  on  a  slimy,  slop- 
ing bank  of  the  Ganges  like  turtles  ready  to  slip  into  the  stream  at 
the  first  hint  of  danger.  A  shriveled  Hindu,  frightened  speechless  by 
the  appearance  of  three  sahibs  before  his  shop  door,  sold  us  a  stale 
and  fly-specked  breakfast,  and  we  turned  down  towards  the  river. 
On  .the  sagging  gangplank  of  a  tiny  steamer,  moored  at  the  foot  of 
the  slippery  bank,  stood  the  Irish  Buddhist,  his  yellow  robe  drawn 
up  about  his  knees,  scrubbing  his  legs  in  the  muddy  water. 

"  Good  mornin'  te  ye !  "  he  called,  waving  a  dripping  hand.  "  Come 
on  board  and  we  '11  have  a  chat.     She  don't  leave  till  noon." 

''  The  time  '11  pass  fast,"  I  suggested,  "  if  you  '11  give  us  your  yarn." 

*'  Sure  and  I  will,"  answered  the  Irishman,  "  if  ye  '11  promise  te 
listen  te  a  good  sthraight  talk  on  religion  after." 

What  was  it  in  my  appearance  that  led  every  religious  propagandist 
to  look  upon  me  as  a  possible  convert?  Even  the  missionary  from 
Kansas  had  loaded  me  down  with  tracts. 

The  Irishman  led  the  way  to  a  cool  spot  on  the  deserted  deck,  sat 
down  Turkish  fashion,  and,  gazing  out  across  the  sluggish,  brown 
Ganges,  told  us  the  story  of  an  unusual  life. 

He  was  born  in  Dublin  in  the  early  fifties.  As  a  young  man  he 
had  emigrated  to  America,  and,  turning  "  hobo,"  had  traveled  through 
every  state  in  the  Union,  working  here  and  there.  He  was  not  long 
in  convincing  both  Rice  and  me  that  he  knew  the  secrets  of  the  "  blind 
baggage "  and  the  ways  of  railroad  "  bulls."  More  than  once  he 
growled  out  the  name  of  some  junction  where  we,  too,  had  been 
ditched,  and  told  of  running  the  police  gauntlet  in  cities  that  rank 
even  to-day  as  "  bad  towns." 

"  Two  years  after  landin'  in  the  States,"  he  continued,  "  I  hit 
Caleefornia  and  took  a  job  thruckin'  on  a  blessed  fruit-boat  in  the 
Sacreminto  river,  the  Acme — " 

''Whatl"  I  gasp'^d,  "The  Acme?  I  was  truckman  on  her  in 
1902." 

"  Bless  mc  eyes,  were  ye  now  ?  "  cried  the  Irishman.     "  'Tis  a  blessed 


362      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

shmall  worrld.  Well,  'twas  on  the  Acme  thot  I  picked  oop  with  a 
blessed  ould  sea  dog  of  the  name  of  Blodgett,  and  we  shipped  out 
of  Frisco  fer  Japan.  Blodgett,  poor  b'y,  died  on  the  vi'age,  and  after 
pay  in'  off  I  wint  on  alone,  fitchin'  oop  at  last  in  Rhangoon.  Th'  Eng- 
lish were  not  houldin'  Burma  thin,  and  white  min  were  as  rare  as 
Siamese  twins.  Bless  ye,  but  the  natives  were  glad  to  see  me,  and 
I  lived  foine.  But  bist  of  all,  I  found  the  thrue  religion,  as  ye  wud 
call  it,  or  philosophy  as  it  shud  be  called.  Whin  I  was  sure  'twas 
right  I  took  orders  among  thim,  bein'  the  foirst  blessed  white  man  te 
turn  Buddhist  priest." 

"  Good  graft,"  grinned  Rice. 

"  The  remark  shows  yer  ignerance,"  retorted  the  son  of  Erin. 
"  Listen.  Oop  te  the  day  of  me  confirmation  I  was  drhawin'  a  hun- 
der  rupees  a  month.  I  quit  me  job.  I  gave  ivery  blessed  thing  I 
owned  to  a  friend  of  moine,  even  te  me  socks.  At  the  timple,  an 
ould  priest  made  me  prisint  of  a  strip  of  yellow  cloth,  but  they  tore 
it  inte  three  paces  te  make  it  warthless,  and  thin  sewed  the  paces  to- 
gither  agin  fer  a  robe,  and  I  've  worn  it  or  wan  loike  it  iver  since. 
If  I  'd  put  on  European  clothes  agin,  fer  even  wan  day,  I  'd  be  ex- 
pilled.  I  cut  off  me  hair  and  as  foine  a  mustache  as  iver  ye  saw. 
If  I  'd  lit  them  grow  agin  I  'd  be  expilled.  If  I  'd  put  on  a  hat  or 
shoes  I  'd  be  expilled.  So  wud  I  if  I  owned  a  farthin'  of  money,  if  I 
shud  kill  so  much  as  a  flee,  if  I  'd  dhrink  a  glass  of  arrack,  if  I 
tuched  the  ouldest  hag  in  the  market  place  with  so  much  as  me  finger. 

"  Foine  graft,  say  you  and  yer  loikes.  Listen  te  more.  Whin  I 
tuk  the  robe,  and  that 's  twinty  year  an'  gone,  I  become  a  novice  in 
the  faymous  Tavoy  monistary.  Ivery  blessed  morning  of  me  loife  fer 
foive  year,  I  wint  out  with  the  ither  novices,  huggin'  a  big  rhice  bowl 
aginst  me  belly.  We  stopped  at  ivery  blessed  house.  If  we  'd  asked 
fer  inything  we  'd  'a  been  expilled.  The  thrue  Buddhists  all  put 
something  inte  the  bowl,  rhice  ginerally  and  curry,  sometoimes  fish. 
Whin  they  were  full  we  wint  back  te  the  monistary,  an'  all  the  priests, 
ould  wans  and  novices,  had  dinner  from  what  we  'd  brung  them. 
Thin  we  gave  the  rist  te  the  biggars,  fer  blessed  a  thing  can  we  ate 
from  the  noon  te  the  nixt  sunrise. 

"  'Twas  harrd,  the  foirst  months,  atin'  nothin'  but  curry  and  rhice. 
Now,  bless  ye,  I  'd  not  ate  European  fud  if  'twas  set  down  before  me. 
Ivery  blessed  afternoon  I  sthudied  the  history  of  Buddha  and  Burmese 
with  the  ould  priests.  'Twas  a  foine  thing  fer  me.  Before  I  found 
the  thrue  faith  I  was  that  blessed  ignerent  I  cud  hardly  rade  me  ouwn 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  363 

tungue.  To-day,  bless  ye,  I  know  eight  languages  and  the  ins  an' 
outs  of  ivery  religion  on  the  futstool.  I  was  a  vile  curser  whin  I 
was  hoboin'  in  the  States,  and  'twas  harrd  te  quit  it.  But  ivery 
toime  I  started  te  say  a  cuss-ward  I  thought  of  the  revired  Gautama 
and  sid  *  blessed '  instead,  and  I  'm  master  of  me  ouwn  tungue,  now." 
"  Then  you  really  worship  the  Buddhist  god,"  put  in  James. 
"  There  agin,"  cried  the  Irishman,  "  is  the  ignerance  of  them  that 
follows  that  champeen  faker,  Jaysus,  the  son  of  Mary  and  a  dhrunken 
Roman  soldier.  The  Buddhists  worship  no  wan.  We  riveere  Bud- 
dha, the  foinest  man  that  iver  lived,  because  he  showed  us  the  way  te 
attain  Nirvana,  which  is  te  say  hiven.  He  was  no  god,  but  a  man 
loike  the  rist  of  us. 

"  After  foive  year  I  was  ordayned  and  foive  more  I  was  tachin' 
th'  ither  novices  and  the  childr',  the  Tavoy  monistary  bein'  the  big 
school  of  Rhangoon.  Thin  I  was  made  an  ilder,  thin  the  abbot  of 
the  monistary,  thin  after  fifteen  year,  the  bishop,  as  ye  wud  call  it, 
of  Rhangoon.  Th'  abbots  and  the  bishops  have  no  nade  te  tache, 
but,  bless  ye,  I  'm  tachin'  yit,  it  bein'  me  duty  te  give  te  ithers  of  the 
thrue  faith  what  I  've  larned. 

"  'Tis  the  bishop's  place  te  travel,  and  in  these  six  years  gone  I  've 
visited  ivery  blessed  Buddhist  kingdom  in  Asia,  from  Japan  te  Caylon ; 
and  I  was  in  Lhassa  talkin'  with  the  delai  lama  long  before  Yoonghus- 
band  wud  have  dared  te  show  his  face  there.     There  's  niver  a  Bud- 
dhist king  nor  prince  thot  has  n't  traited  me  loike  wan  uv  them,  though 
they  'd  have  cut  the  throats  of  iny  ither  European.     I  'm  comin'  back 
now   from   three   months   with   the   prince   uv   Naypal,   taychin'   his 
priests,  him  givin'  me  the  ticket  te  Chittagong." 
"  But  if  you  can't  touch  money  ?  — "  I  began. 
"  In  haythen  lands  we  can  carry  enough  te  buy  our  currie  and  rhice. 
I   hove  here   three   rupees," — drawing  out   a   knotted   handkerchief 
from  the  folds  of  his  robe  — "  if  there  's  a  anna  of  it  lift  whin  I  land 
in  Burma,  I  '11  give  it  te  the  foirst  biggar  te  ask  me.     In  Buddhist 
cuntries  the  blessed  people  give  us  what  we  nade,  as  they  '11  give  it 
te   inywan   ilse   thot 's   nadin'   it.     They  're   no    superstitious,    selfish 
bastes  loike  these  dhirty  Hindus.     Whin  we  come  te  Chittagong  ye 
can  stop  with  me.     Thin  I  '11  give  ye  a  chit  te  the  Tavoy  in  Rhangoon 
and  ye  can  stay  there  as  long  as  iver  ye  loike.     If  iver  ye  have  no 
place  te  put  oop  in  a  Buddhist  town,  go  te  the  monistary.     And  if  ye 
till  them  ye  know  me,  see  how  foine  ye  '11  be  traited." 
"  Aye,  but  we  'd  have  to  know  your  name,"  I  suggested. 


364      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  As  I  was  goin'  te  tell  ye,  it 's  U  (00)  Damalaku." 

"  Don't  sound  Irish,"  I  remarked. 

''  No,  indade,"  laughed  the  priest,  "  that 's  me  Buddhist  name. 
The  ould  wan  was  Larry  O'Rourke." 

"  Ye  call  thot  graft,  you  and  yer  loikes,"  he  concluded,  turning  to 
Rice,  "givin'  oop  yer  name  and  yer  hair  and  a  foine  mustache,  and 
yer  clothes,  an'  ownin  niver  a  anna,  and  havin'  yer  ouwn  ignerant 
rhace  laughin'  at  ye,  and  havin'  yer  body  burned  be  the  priests  whin 
yer  born  agin  in  anither  wan !  But  it 's  the  thrue  philosophy,  bless  ye, 
and  the  roight  way  te  live.  Why  is  it  the  white  min  thot  come  out 
here  die  in  tiri  year  ?  D'  ye  think  it 's  the  climate  ?  Bless  ye,  no, 
indade,  it 's  the  sthrong  dhrink  and  the  women.  Luk  at  me.  Wud 
ye  think  I  was  fifty-five  if  I  had  n't  told  ye  ?  " 

He  was,  certainly,  the  picture  of  health ;  deeply  tanned,  but  with  the 
clear  eye  and  youthful  poise  of  a  man  twenty  years  younger.  Only 
one  hardship,  apparently,  had  he  suffered  during  two  decades  of  the 
yellow  robe.  His  feet  were  broad  and  stumpy  to  the  point  of  de- 
formity, heavily  calloused,  and  deeply  scarred  from  years  of  travel 
over  many  a  rough  and  stony  highway. 

"  It 's  a  strange  story,"  said  James. 

"  I  'm  askin'  no  wan  te  take  me  word  in  this  world  of  liars,"  re- 
sponded the  Irishman,  somewhat  testily.     "  Here  ye  have  the  proof." 

He  thrust  a  hand  inside  his  robe  and,  drawing  out  a  small,  fat 
book,  laid  it  in  my  lap.  It  contained  more  than  a  hundred  newspaper 
clippings,  bearing  witness  to  the  truth  of  nearly  every  assertion  he  had 
made.  The  general  trend  of  all  may  be  gleaned  from  one  article, 
dated  four  years  earlier.  In  it  the  reader  was  invited  to  compare  the 
receptions  tendered  Lord  Curzon  and  the  Irish  Buddhist  in  Mandalay. 
The  viceroy,  in  spite  of  months  of  preparation  for  his  visit,  had  been 
received  coldly  by  all  but  the  government  officials.  Damalaku  had 
been  welcomed  by  the  entire  population,  and  had  walked  from  the 
landing  stage  to  the  monastery,  nearly  a  half-mile  distant,  on  a  road- 
way carpeted  with  the  hair  of  the  female  inhabitants,  who  knelt  in 
two  rows,  foreheads  to  the  ground,  on  either  side  of  the  route,  with 
their  tresses  spread  out  over  it. 

When  he  had  despatched  a  Gargantuan  bowl  of  curry  and  rice  in 
anticipation  of  eighteen  hours  of  fasting,  the  Irishman  drew  us  around 
him  once  more  and  began  a  long  dissertation  on  the  philosophy  of 
Buddha.  Two  morning  trains  had  poured  a  multi-colored  rabble  into 
the  mud  village,  and  the  deck  of  the  steamer  was  crowded  with  natives 


:  BEYOND  THE  GANGES  365 

Ijiuddled  together  In  close-packed  groups,  each  protected  from  pollu- 
tion by  a  breastwork  of  bedraggled  bundles.  Newcomers  picked 
:heir  way  gingerly  through  the  network  of  alleyways  between  the 
solated  tribes,  holding  their  garments  —  when  such  they  wore  —  close 
round  them,  and  joined  the  particular  assembly  to  which  their  caste 
assigned  them.  The  Irishman,  at  first  the  butt  of  Hindu  stares,  was 
soon  surrounded  by  an  excited  throng  of  Burmese  travelers. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on  a  diminutive  Hindu,  of  meek  and  child- 
ike  countenance,  appeared  on  board,  and,  hobbling  in  and  out  through 
the  alleyways  on  a  clumsily-fitted  wooden  leg,  fell  to  distributing  the 
pamphlets  that  he  carried  under  one  arm.     His  dress  stamped  him  as 

native  Christian  missionary.  Suddenly,  his  eye  fell  on  Damalaku, 
and  he  stumped  forward  open-mouthed. 

"  What  are  you,  sahib?  "  he  murmured  in  a  wondering  tone  of  voice. 

"  As  you  see,"  replied  the  Irishman,  "  I  am  a  Buddhist  priest." 

"  Bu  —  but  what  country  do  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  am  from  Ireland." 

Over  the  face  of  the  native  spread  an  expression  of  suffering,  as 
if  the  awful  suspicion  that  the  missionaries  to  whom  he  owed  his 
Qonversion  had  deceived  him,  were  clutching  at  his  heartstrings. 

"  Ireland?"  he  cried,  tremulously,  "Then  you  are  not  a  Buddhist! 
Irishmen  are  Christians.  All  sahibs  are  Christians,"  and  he  glanced 
nervously  at  the  grinning  Burmese  about  us. 

"  Yah !  Thot  's  what  the  Christian  fakers  tell  ye,"  snapped  the  Irish- 
man.    "  What 's  thot  ye  've  got  ?  " 

The  Hindu  turned  over  several  of  the  tracts.  They  were  separate 
books  of  the  Bible,  printed  in  English  and  Hindustanee. 

"  Bah !  "  said  Damalaku,  "  It 's  bad  enough  to  see  white  Christians. 
But  the  man  who  swallows  all  the  rot  the  sahib  missionaries  dish  oop 
fer  him,  whin  the  thrue  faith  lies  not  a  day's  distance,  is  disgoostin*. 
Ye  shud  be  ashamed  of  yerself." 

'*  It 's  a  nice  religion,"  murmured  the  convert. 

"  Prove  it,"  snapped  the  Irishman. 

The  Hindu  accepted  the  challenge,  and  for  the  ensuing  half-hour 
we  were  witnesses  of  the  novel  spectacle  of  a  sahib  stoutly  defending 
the  faith  of  the  East  against  a  native  champion  of  the  religion  of  the 
West.  Unfortunately,  he  of  the  wooden  leg  was  no  match  for  the 
learned  bishop.  He  began  with  a  parrot-like  repetition  of  Christian 
catechisms  and,  having  spoken  his  piece,  stood  helpless  before  his  ad- 
versary.    A  school  boy  would  have  presented  the  case  more  convinc- 


366      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ingly.  The  Irishman,  who  knew  the  Bible  by  heart,  evidently,  from 
Genesis  to  Revelations,  quoted  liberally  from  the  Scriptures  in  sup- 
port of  his  arguments,  and,  when  the  Hindu  questioned  a  passage, 
caught  up  one  of  the  pamphlets  and  turned  without  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation to  the  page  on  which  it  was  set  forth. 

Entangled  in  a  net-work  of  texts  and  his  own  ignorance,  the  native 
soon  became  the  laughing-stock  of  the  assembled  Burmese.  He  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  from  the  controversy  by  asserting  that  he  spoke 
no  English.  Damalaku  addressed  him  in  Hindustanee.  He  pre- 
tended even  to  have  forgotten  his  mother  tongue,  and  snatched  child- 
ishly at  the  pamphlets  in  the  hands  of  the  priest.  When  all  other 
means  failed,  he  fell  back  on  the  final  subterfuge  of  the  Hindu  —  and 
began  to  weep.  Amid  roars  of  laughter  he  clutched  the  tracts  that  the 
Irishman  held  out  to  him  and,  with  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks, 
hobbled  away,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left  until  he  had  disap- 
peared in  the  mud  village. 

The  steamer  put  off  an  hour  later  and,  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  tortuous  channels  of  the  delta,  landed  us  at  sundown  in  Chand- 
pore,  a  replica  of  Goalando.  Our  passage  —  for  the  captain  had  re- 
fused to  "  slip  "  us  —  had  reduced  our  combined  fortunes  to  less  than 
one  fare  to  Chittagong.  We  scrambled  with  the  native  throng  up  the 
slimy  bank  to  the  station,  resolved  to  attempt  the  journey  without 
tickets.     It  lacked  an  hour  of  train  time. 

"Will  you  take  this  to  Chittagong?"  I  asked,  thrusting  the  carpet- 
bag into  the  hands  of  the  Irish  bishop.     "  We  're  going  to  beat  it." 

"  Sure,"  replied  the  priest,  "  it  shud  be  easy  be  night  with  this 
crowd." 

It  soon  became  apparent,  however,  that  some  tattling  Hindu  had 
warned  the  railway  officials  against  us.  As  we  strolled  along  the 
platform,  peering  casually  into  the  empty  compartments  and  striving 
to  assume  the  air  of  men  of  unlimited  means,  the  station-master 
emerged  from  his  office  and  fell  into  step  with  us. 

"  The  evening  breeze  is  very  pleasant,  is  it  not,  sahibs  ?  "  he  mur- 
mured,  smiling  benignly. 

"  Damn  hot,"  growled  James. 

"  The  gentlemen  are  going  by  the  train  ?  " 

"  Sure." 

"  There  will  be  many  people  go  to  Chittagong.  Much  nicer  if  the 
sahibs  buy  their  tickets  early." 

"  Wc  bought  tickets  in  Goalando,"  I  answered. 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  367 

"  Ah  I  Just  so,"  smiled  the  babu,  but  the  smile  suggested  that  he 
knew  as  well  as  we  the  destination  of  those  Goalando  tickets. 

He  dropped  gradually  behind  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  crowd. 
Rumor  runs  with  incredible  swiftness  among  the  Hindus,  and  the 
natives  who  stepped  aside  to  let  us  pass  stared  suspiciously  at  us.  We 
turned  back  at  the  end  of  the  platform  to  find  a  police  officer  strolling 
along  a  few  paces  in  the  rear,  ostensibly  absorbed  in  the  study  of  the 
firmament.  Three  others  flitted  in  and  out  among  the  travelers.  The 
police  of  Chandpore  could  not,  of  course,  arrest  us,  could  not,  indeed, 
keep  us  out  of  any  compartment  we  chose  to  enter.  But  well  we 
knew  that,  if  they  reported  us  on  board,  the  station-master  would  hold 
the  train  until  we  dismounted,  were  it  not  till  morning. 

We  strolled  haughtily  past  the  baggage-car  and  dodged  around  to 
the  other  side  of  the  train.  Here  in  the  darkness  it  should  be  easy  to 
escape  observation.  Barely  three  steps  had  we  taken,  however,  when 
we  ran  almost  into  the  arms  of  a  native  sentry,  and  his  cry  was  an- 
swered by  at  least  three  others  out  of  the  night.  The  coaches  were 
well  guarded  indeed. 

**  The  nerve  o'  that  damn  babu ! "  exploded  Rice,  "  thinkin'  he  can 
keep  you  'n  me,  what 's  got  away  from  half  the  yard  bulls  in  the 
States,  from  holdin'  down  his  two-fer-a-nickle  train!  Bet  he  never 
heard  of  a  hobo.  Come  on !  We  '11  put  James  onto  the  ropes  an'  do 
it  in  Amurican  style.  It  '11  be  like  takin'  cowries  away  from  a  blind 
nigger  baby  wid  elephanteesees." 

We  returned  to  the  station  to  glance  at  the  clock.  Rice,  in  his 
scorn,  could  not  refrain  from  making  a  pair  of  ass's  ears  at  the  aston- 
ished babu.  With  a  half  hour  to  spare,  we  struck  off  through  the 
bazaars  and,  munching  as  we  went,  picked  our  way  along  the  track  to 
a  box-car  a  furlong  from  the  station.  In  an  American  railroad  yard 
the  detectives  would  have  been  thickest  at  this  vantage-point,  but  the 
babu  knew  naught  of  the  ways  of  hoboes. 

A  triumphant  screech  from  the  engine  put  an  end  to  James*  school- 
ing; and,  as  the  silhouette  of  the  fireman  before  the  open  furnace  door 
sped  by,  we  darted  out  of  our  hiding  place.  The  Australian,  urged 
on  by  our  bellowing,  dived  at  an  open  window  and  dragged  himself 
onto  the  running-board.  We  swung  up  after  him,  and  making  our 
way  forward,  entered  an  empty  compartment. 

"  Well,  we  made  her,"  gasped  James,  throwing  aside  his  topee  and 
mopping  his  face,  "  but  what  about  the  collectors  ?  " 

"  Yah !    There  's  the  trouble,"  scowled  Rice. 


368      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  The  only  game,"  I  answered,  "  is  to  refuse  to  wake  up." 

"  Fine !  "  cried  the  Chicago  lad,  "  that 's  the  best  scheme  yet." 

I  thought  so  too — until  later. 

We  had  slept  two  hours,  perhaps,  possibly  three,  when  our  dreams 
were  disturbed  by  the  thump  of  a  ticket-punch  on  the  window-sill 
and  the  unmistakable  dulcet  of  a  Eurasian:  — 

"  Tickets,  please,  sahibs.     Give  rne  your  tickets." 

We  lay  on  our  backs,  imperturbable. 

"  Tickets,  sahibs !  "  shrieked  the  Eurasian. 

James  was  snoring  lightly  and  peacefully;  Rice,  with  long-drawn 
snarls,  like  the  death-rattle  of  a  war-horse,  as  if  striving  not  merely 
to  deceive  the  collector  but  to  frighten  him  off. 

"  Tickets,  I  say,  sahibs,  tickets !  " 

The  voice  was  high-pitched  now,  and  the  rapping  of  the  punch 
echoed  back  to  us  from  the  station  building.  Three  more  collectors 
joined  their  colleague  and  murderously  assaulted  the  car  door. 

**  Hello  there !     Tickets !     It 's  the  collector !     Wake  up !     Tickets!  " 

The  uproar  drowned  the  mumble  in  which  Rice  cursed  the  unusual 
length  of  the  train's  halt.  An  official  thrust  an  arm  through  the  open 
window  and  shook  me  savagely.  The  others,  bellowing  angrily,  fol- 
lowed his  example,  and  rolled  us  back  and  forth  on  the  hard  benches. 
The  helmet  that  had  shaded  my  eyes  rolled  to  the  floor.  Rice,  who 
had  lain  down,  as  he  afterward  expressed  it,  "  wrong  end  to," 
was  caught  by  the  ankle  and  dragged  to  the  window.  Still  we  slum- 
bered. 

Suddenly  the  uproar  subsided. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  cried  a  sterner  voice  outside. 

I  opened  my  eyes  ever  so  slightly  and  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a 
Eurasian  in  the  uniform  of  a  station-master. 

"  Let  them  alone,"  he  ordered,  *'  they  've  had  too  much  arrack.  No 
matter  if  their  tickets  are  not  punched  at  every  station." 

The  train  started  with  a  jerk,  the  station  lights  faded,  and  we  sat 
up  simultaneously.  1 

"  Worked  like  a  charm,"  chuckled  James. 

"  Thought  it  would,"  I  answered. 

"  Great !  "  grinned  Rice,  "  Would  n't  go  in  the  States,  though ;  "  and 
we  lay  down  again. 

Three  more  times  during  the  night  we  were  assaulted  by  a  force 
of  collectors,  but  slumbered  peacefully  on.     When  I  awoke  again  it 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  369 

was  broad  daylight.  The  train  was  speeding  along  through  unpeo- 
pled jungle.  Evidently  it  was  behind  time,  or  we  should  long  since 
have  reached  Chittagong.  James  stirred  on  his  bench,  sat  up,  and 
took  to  filling  his  pipe.  Rice  opened  his  eyes  a  moment  later  and  fished 
through  his  pockets  for  the  "  makings  "  of  a  cigarette.  I  took  seat 
at  the  window  and  stared  ahead  for  signs  of  the  seaport. 

Suddenly  a  white  mile-post  flashed  by,  and  my  shout  of  astonish- 
ment brought  James  and  Rice  to  their  feet  in  alarm.  My  eyes  had 
deceived  me,  perhaps,  but  I  fancied  the  stone  had  borne  three  figures. 
We  crowded  together  and  waited  anxiously  for  the  next. 

"  There  it  is !  "  cried  my  companions,  in  chorus.  "  Two  hundred  and 
seventy-three !  " 

"Two  hundred  and  seventy-three  miles?"  shrieked  James.  "The 
whole  run  to  Chitty's  not  half  that  far!  Soorah  Bud j ah!  Where 
have  we  been  snaked  off  to  ?  " 

"  Let 's  see  whether  we  're  going  or  coming,"  I  suggested. 
"  Two  hundred  and  seventy- four !  "  bellowed  Rice,  who  was  riding 
half  out  the  window,  "  An'  they  ain't  no  dot  between  'em !     We  're 
go  in',  all  right !  " 

*'  Oh  Lord !  And  all  our  swag !  "  groaned  James. 
Still  it  was  possible  that  the  posts  indicated  the  distance  to  some 
other  city  than  Chittagong,  and  we  sat  down  and  waited  anxiously 
until  the  train  drew  up  at  the  next  station.  It  was  nothing  more  than 
a  bamboo  hamlet  in  the  wilderness.  We  sprang  out  and  hurried  to- 
wards the  babu  station-master. 

"  How  soon  do  we  get  to  Chittagong?  "  I  demanded. 
"  Chittagong !  "  gasped  the  babu.     "  Why,  you  going  wrong,  sahibs, 
Chittagong   two    hundred   and    eighty   miles    down    there,"    and    he 
pointed  along  the  track  the  way  we  had  come. 

''Then  why  the  deuce  did  they  let  us  take  this  train?"  shouted 
Jcimes.     "  Where  is  it  going,  anyway?  " 

"  This  train  going  in  Assam,"  replied  the  native,  *'  Where  gentlemen 
coming  from?  Sure  you  wishing  go  Chittagong?  Let  me  see  tick- 
ets." 

"  Oh,  we  know  where  we  want  to  go,  all  right,"  said  James,  hastily. 
"  We  're  coming  from  Chandpore." 

"  Ah !  Chandpore ! "  smiled  the  babu.  "  I  understand.  Train 
from  Chandpore  breaking  in  two  thirty  miles  further.  Part  going 
to  Chittagong,  part  coming  here.     You  sitting  in  wrong  car.     Maybe 


1 


370      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

you  sleep  ?  "  "  But,"  he  added,  as  a  puzzled  frown  passed  over  his 
face,  "  many  collectors  are  at  this  junction.  Why  they  have  not  wake 
you?" 

"  That 's  what  I  'd  like  to  know,"  bellowed  Rice.  '*  This  is  a  thunder 
of  a  railroad." 

The  shriek  of  a  locomotive  sounded,  and  a  moment  later  a  south 
bound  train  drew  up  on  the  switch. 

"  This  train  going  in  Chittagong,"  said  the  babu,  *'  you  can  go 
with  it." 

"  Do  you  think  we  're  going  to  pay  our  fare  for  two  hundred  and 
eighty  miles,"  demanded  James,  "  just  because  the  collectors  did  n't 
tell  us  to  change?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sahibs,"  breathed  the  babu,  "  I  will  tell  it  to  the  guard. 
Let  me  take  tickets  that  I  show  him." 

"  But  we  '11  have  to  hurry  or  we  '11  miss  her,"  said  James,  starting 
towards  the  side-tracked  train. 

"  Oh,  plenty  time,"  murmured  the  babu,  ''  Let  me  take  tickets ;  " 
and  he  stretched  out  a  hand. 

Apparently  it  had  come  to  a  "  show  down." 

"  Holy  cats !  "  screamed  Rice,  suddenly  springing  into  the  air.  ''  I 
remember  now !  I  had  all  the  bloody  tickets  in  my  pocket,  and  when 
the  collector  hollered  fer  'em  I  give  'em  to  him.  But  I  went  to 
sleep  an'  he  never  give  'em  back." 

"  Very  poor  collector,"  condoled  the  babu,  "  but,  never  mind,  I 
will  tell  to  the  guard  how  it  is." 

The  north-bound  train  pulled  out  and  he  stepped  across  the  track 
to  chatter  a  moment  in  excited  Hindustanee  with  a  uniformed  half- 
breed. 

"  Ah !  Very  nice !  "  he  smiled,  coming  back,  "  On  this  train  is  rid- 
ing the  sahib  superintendent.  You  telling  him  and  he  tell  you 
what  do." 

Our  jaws  fell.  No  doubt  it  seemed  "  very  nice  "  to  the  babu,  but 
had  we  suspected  that  there  was  an  Englishman  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  where  we  stood,  Rice  certainly  would  have  invented  no  such 
tale.  It  was  too  late  to  retract,  however,  and  the  Chicago  lad,  as  the 
author  of  the  story  and  the  only  one  familiar  with  its  details,  crossed 
to  the  jfirst-class  coach.  At  his  first  words,  a  burly  Englishman, 
dressed  in  light  khaki,  opened  the  door  of  a  compartment  and  stepped 
down  to  the  ground. 

"  It 's  all  off,"  muttered  James. 


••"i^ 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  371 

But  the  Englishman  Hstencd  gravely,  nodded  his  head  twice  or 
thrice,  and  pointed  towards  a  third-class  coach. 

*  Did  n't  call  me  a  liar  an'  did  n't  say  he  believed  me,"  explained 
Rice,  when  the  compartment  door  had  closed  behind  us.  "  Says  he  '11 
look  into  the  matter  when  we  get  back  to  the  junction.  I  see  some- 
thin'  doin'  when  we  land  there." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  train  drew  up  at  the  scene  of  our  pum- 
melling the  night  before,  and  the  Englishman  led  the  way  to  the 
station-master's  quarters.  That  official,  however,  was  as  certain  as 
we  that  no  tickets  for  Chittagong  had  been  taken  up. 

'  Three  sahibs  have  gone  through  in  the  night,"  asserted  his  as- 
sistant, "  but  with  much  noise  we  have  not  made  them  awake.  Cer- 
tainly our  collectors  do  not  take  up  Chittagong  tickets  here." 

'You  see  how  it  is,  my  men?"  said  the  superintendent,  "If  they 
lad  been  taken  up  he  would  have  them." 

*  By  thunder,"  shouted  Rice,  "  I  '11  bet  a  pack  o'  Sweet-Caps  the 
guy  that  took  'em  was  no  collector  at  all.  He  was  some  bloomin'  nig- 
ger that  wanted  to  take  his  family  to  Chittagong." 

'  It  is  possible,"  replied  the  Englishman,  as  gravely  as  though  he 
were  discussing  a  philosophical  problem,  "  but  the  company  does  not 
guarantee  travelers  against  theft.  As  we  have  found  no  trace  of  the 
tickets  you  will  have  to  pay  your  fare  to  Chittagong." 

'*  We  can't !  "  cried  the  three  of  us,  in  chorus.  On  that  point  we 
could  second  Rice  without  feeling  a  prick  of  conscience. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  superintendent,  as  if  he  had  not  heard,  "  you 
will  have  to  pay." 

He  took  a  turn  about  the  platform. 

"  But  we  're  busted ! "  we  wailed,  when  he  again  stopped  before  us. 

"  Get  into  your  compartment,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  will  wire  the 
agent  at  Chittagong  to  collect  three  fares." 

"  I  tell  you  we  have  n't  got  — " 

But  he  was  already  out  of  earshot.  No  doubt  he  was  convinced 
that  with  time  for  reflection  we  should  be  able  to  unearth  several 
rupees  which  we  had  forgotten.  Certainly  he  did  not  believe  that 
white  men  would  venture  into  that  wilderness  without  money  —  no 
Englishman  of  his  class  would. 

Dark  night  had  fallen  when  we  alighted  at  Chittagong.  A  babu 
agent  awaited  us,  telegram  in  hand.  Luckily,  his  superior,  an  Eng- 
lishman, had  retired  to  his  bungalow.  The  Hindu  led  the  way  to  a 
lighted  window  and  read  the  message  aloud.     It  was  a  curt  order  to 


0t 


372      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

collect  three  fares,  with  never  a  hint  of  the  unimportant  detail  we  had 
confided  to  the  superintendent. 

The  agent,  of  course,  would  not  be  convinced  of  our  indigency.  To 
our  every  protest  he  replied  unmoved:  — 

"  But  you  must  pay,  sahibs." 

"  You  bloody  fool !  "  shrieked  Rice,  "  How  can  we  pay  when  we  're 
busted  ?  " 

"  You  may  not  pass  through  the  gates  until  you  have  paid,"  re- 
turned the  babu. 

"  All  right,"  said  James,  wearily,  "  we  won't.  Show  us  where 
we  're  going  to  sleep  and  send  up  supper." 

The  shot  told.  The  babu  unfolded  the  telegram  meditatively  and 
backed  up  to  the  window  to  read  it  again.  He  scratched  his  head  in 
perplexity,  stood  now  on  one  leg,  now  on  the  other,  and  stared  from 
us  to  the  paper  in  his  hand.  Then  he  trudged  down  the  platform  to 
seek  advice  of  the  baggage  master,  paused  to  chatter  with  the  tele- 
graph operator,  and  returned  to  the  truck  on  which  we  were  seated. 

"  Oh,  sahibs,"  he  wailed,  "  we  have  not  food  and  to  sleep  in  the 
station,  and  the  superintendent  has  not  said  what  I  shall  do.  But 
you  will  give  me  your  names  to  write,  and  to-morrow  you  will  come 
back  and  pay  the  fares;  and  if  you  do  not,  I  will  send  your  names 
to  the  superintendent — " 

"  And  he  can  have  'em  framed  and  hung  up  in  his  bungalow,"  con- 
cluded James.     "Sure!     You  can  have  all  the  names  you  want." 

We  gave  them  and  turned  away,  pausing  at  the  gate  to  ask  the 
collector  to  direct  us  to  the  Buddhist  monastery.  He  chuckled  at  the 
fancied  joke  and  refused  for  some  time  to  take  our  question  seriously. 

"  It  is  very  far,"  he  answered  at  last.  "  You  are  going  through 
the  town,  making  many  turns,  and  through  the  forest  and  over  the 
hill  before  you  are  coming  to  it  by  the  crossroads." 

In  spite  of  these  explicit  directions  we  wandered  a  full  two  hours 
along  soft  roadways  and  over  rolling  hillocks  without  locating  the 
object  of  our  search.  Pedestrians  listened  respectfully  to  our  in- 
quiries, but  though  we  used  every  word  in  our  Oriental  vocabularies 
that  could  in  any  way  be  applied  to  a  religious  edifice,  they  shook 
their  heads  in  perplexity.  One  spot  at  the  intersection  of  two  roads 
seemed  to  answer  vaguely  to  the  collector's  description,  but  it  was 
surrounded  on  every  side  by  dense  groves  in  which  there  was  no 
sound  of  human  occupancy. 

We  were  passing  it  for  the  fourth  time  when  a  gruflf  voice  sounded 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  373 

rom  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  a  native  poHceman,  toga-clad  and 
irnied  with  a  musket^  stepped  towards  us.  His  face  was  ahnost  in- 
isible  in  the  darkness ;  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  gleaming  plainly,  gave 
liiH  the  uncanny  appearance  of  a  masked  figure. 

"  Buddha !  "  cried  James,  with  a  sweeping  gesture,  "  Boodha,  Bud- 
Jhaha,  Boodista  ?     Buddha  sahib  keh  bungalow  kehdereh  ?  " 

The  officer  shivered  and  peered  nervously  about  him,  like  one  con- 
zinced  of  the  white  man's  power  over  hobgoblins.  As  we  turned 
iway,  however,  he  uttered  a  triumphant  shout  and  dashed  off  into 
he  forest.  A  moment  later  the  sound  of  human  voices  came  to  us 
rom  the  depth  of  the  grove ;  a  light  flashed  through  the  trees,  swung 
o  and  fro  as  it  advanced ;  and  out  of  the  woods,  a  lantern  high  above 
heir  heads,  strode  three  yellow-robed  figures. 

*'  Bless  me !  "  cried  the  tallest,  in  stentorian  tones,  "  It 's  the'  Ameri- 
:ans !  Where  in  the  name  uv  white  min  have  ye  been  spindin'  the 
)lcssed  day?  Lucky  y'  are  te  foind  our  house  in  th'  woods  on  a  black 
loight  like  this.     It 's  hungry  ye  '11  be.     Come  te  the  monistary." 

lie  led  the  way  through  the  forest  to  a  square,  one-story  building, 
lanked  by  smaller  structures;  one  of  a  score  of  native  priests  set  be- 
"ore  us  a  cold  supper  of  currie  and  rice,  gathered  by  the  novices  early 
hat  morning,  and  a  half-hour  later  we  turned  in  on  three  charpoys 
n  a  bamboo  cottage  behind  the  main  edifice. 

As  the  sun  was  declining  the  next  afternoon  we  climbed  the  highest 
)f  the  verdure-clad  hills  on  which  Chittagong  is  built,  to  seek  informa- 
ion  from  the  district  commissioner.  For  the  native  residents,  priest 
)r  layman,  knew  naught  of  the  route  to  Mandalay.  The  governor, 
iroused  from  a  Sunday  siesta  on  his  vine-curtained  veranda,  received 
IS  kindly,  nay,  delightedly,  and,  having  called  a  servant  to  minister  to 
3ur  thirst,  went  in  person  to  astonish  his  wife  with  the  announcement 
3f  European  callers.  That  lady,  being  duly  introduced,  consented, 
tpon  the  solicitation  of  her  husband,  to  contribute  to  our  entertain- 
Ticnt  at  the  piano. 

White  men  come  rarely  to  Chittagong.  Chatting,  like  social  equals, 
^vith  a  district  ruler  stretched  out  in  a  reclining  chair  between  us,  we 
:ame  near  to  forgetting  for  the  nonce  that  we  were  mere  beach- 
:ombers." 

"  And  now,  of  course,"  said  our  host,  when  James  had  concluded 
an  expurgated  account  of  our  journey  from  Calcutta,  "  you  will  wait 
for  the  steamer  to  Rangoon?" 

"Why,   no,    Mr.    Commissioner,"    I    answered,   "we're   going   to 


374      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

walk  overland  to  Mandalay,  and  we  took  the  liberty  of  calling  on  you 
to—" 

"  Mandalay !  "  gasped  the  Englishman,  dropping  his  slippered  feet 
to  the  floor,  "  Walk  to  Man  —  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  come  here 
a  moment." 

He  rose  and  stepped  to  a  corner  of  the  veranda,  and,  raising  an  arm, 
pointed  away  to  the  eastward. 

"  That,"  he  said,  almost  sadly,  "  is  the  way  to  Mandalay.  Does 
that  look  like  a  country  to  be  traversed  on  foot  ? " 

It  did  not,  certainly.  Beyond  the  river,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
crazy-quilt  sails,  lay  a  primeval  wilderness.  Range  after  range  of  bold 
hills  and  mountain  chains  commanded  the  landscape,  filHng  the  view 
with  their  stern  summits  until  they  were  lost  in  the  blue  and  hazy 
eastern  horizon.  At  the  very  brink  of  the  river  began  a  riotous  tropical 
jungle,  covering  hill  and  valley  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  and  broken 
nowhere  in  all  its  extent  by  clearing  or  the  suggestion  of  a  pathway. 

"  There,"  went  on  the  commissioner,  "  is  one  of  the  wildest  regions 
under  British  rule.  Tigers  abound,  snakes  sun  themselves  on  every 
bush,  wild  animals  lie  in  wait  in  every  thicket.  The  valleys  are  full 
of  dacoits  —  savage  outlaws  that  even  the  government  fears ;  and 
the  spring  freshets  have  made  the  mountain  streams  raging  torrents. 
There  is  absolutely  nothing  to  guide  you.  If  you  succeeded  in  travel- 
ing a  mile  after  crossing  the  river,  you  would  be  hopelessly  lost ;  and 
if  you  were  not,  what  would  you  eat  and  drink  in  that  wilderness  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  James,  "  we  *d  eat  the  wild  animals  and  drink  the 
mountain  streams.  Of  course  we  'd  carry  a  compass.  That 's  what 
we  do  in  the  Australian  Bush." 

"  We  thought  you  might  have  a  map,"  I  put  in. 

The  commissioner  stepped  into  the  bungalow.  The  music  ceased 
and  the  player  followed  her  husband  out  onto  the  veranda. 

"  This,"  he  said,  spreading  out  a  chart  he  carried,  "  is  the  latest  map 
of  the  region.  You  must  n  't  suppose,  as  many  people  do,  that  all 
India  has  been  explored  and  charted.  You  see  for  yourselves  that 
there  is  nothing  between  Chittagong  and  the  Irawaddy  but  a  few 
wavy  lines  to  represent  mountain  ranges.  That 's  all  any  map  shows 
and  all  any  civilized  man  knows  of  that  section.  Bah !  Your  scheme 
is  idiotic.     You  might  as  well  try  to  walk  to  Lhassa." 

He  rolled  up  the  map  and  dropped  again  into  his  chair. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  asked,  ''  where  are  you  putting  up  in  Chit- 
tagong?" 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  375 

"  We  're  living  at  the  Buddhist  monastery,"  I  answered. 

''  What ! "  he  shouted,  springing  up  once  more.  "  In  the  Bud- 
dhist monastery?  You!  White  men  and  Christians?  Disgraceful! 
Why,  as  the  governor  of  this  district,  I  forbid  it.  Why  have  n  't  you 
ypnt  to  the  Sailors'  Home  ?  " 

"  Never  imagined  for  a  moment,"  I  replied,  "  that  there  was  a 
Home  in  a  little  port  like  this." 

"  There  is,  and  a  fine  one,"  answered  the  commissioner,  **  and  just 
waiting  for  someone  to  occupy  it." 

"  No  place  for  us,"  retorted  James.     "  We  're  busted." 

"  Nothing  to  do  with  it,"  cried  the  Englishman.  "  Money  or  no 
noney,  you  '11  stop  there  while  you  're  here.  I  '11  write  you  a  chit  to 
the  manager  at  once." 

Had  we  rented  by  cable  some  private  estate  we  could  not  have 
been  more  comfortably  domiciled  than  in  the  Sailors'  Home  of  Chit- 
tagong.  The  city  itself  was  a  garden-spot,  the  Home  a  picturesque 
white  bungalow,  set  in  the  edge  of  the  forest  on  the  river  bank.  The 
broad  lawn  before  it  was  several  acres  in  extent,  the  graveled  walk 
led  through  patches  of  brilliant  flowers.  Within,  the  building  was 
furnished  almost  extravagantly.  The  library  numbered  fully  a  thou- 
sand volumes  —  by  no  means  confined  to  the  output  of  mission  pub- 
lishing houses  —  in  one  corner  were  ranged  the  latest  English  and 
American  magazines,  their  leaves  still  uncut.  The  parlor  was  car- 
peted with  mats,  the  dining-room  furnished  with  punkahs.  In  the 
recreation  room,  instead  of  a  dozen  broken  and  greasy  checker- 
boards, stood  a  pool-table,  and  —  comhle  de  combles  —  a  piano! 

Three  native  servants,  housed  in  an  adjoining  cottage,  were  at  our 
beck  and  call.  For,  though  weeks  had  passed  since  the  Home  had 
sheltered  a  guest,  everything  was  as  ready  for  our  accommodation  as 
though  the  manager  —  for  once  a  babu  —  had  been  living  in  daily  ex- 
pectation of  our  arrival. 

An  hour  after  our  installation,  we  were  reclining  in  veranda  chairs 
with  our  feet  on  the  railing,  watching  the  cook  in  hot  pursuit  of  one 
of  the  chickens  that  was  doomed  to  appear  before  us  in  the  evening 
cnrrie,  when  a  white  man  turned  into  the  grounds  and  advanced  list- 
lessly, swinging  his  cane  and  striking  oi¥  a  head  here  and  there 
among  the  tall  flowers  that  bordered  the  route.  Once  in  the  shade 
of  the  bungalow,  he  sprang  up  the  steps  with  outstretched  hand,  and, 
having  vociferated  his  joy  at  the  meeting,  sat  down  beside  us.  What- 
ever other  vocation  he  professed,  he  was  a  consummate  storyteller, 


376      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

and  entertained  us  with  tales  of  frontier  life  until  the  shades  of  night 
fell.  Suddenly,  he  interrupted  a  story  at  its  most  interesting  point  to 
cry  out,  a  propos  of  nothing  at  all :  — 

"  The  commissioner  sent  for  me  this  afternoon." 

"  That  so  ?  "  queried  James. 

"  Yes,  he  thinks  you  fellows  are  going  to  start  to  Mandalay  on 
foot.  Mighty  good  joke,  that,"  and  he  fell  to  chuckling,  glancing 
askance  at  us  the  while. 

"  No  joke  at  all,"  I  protested.  "  We  are  going  on  foot,  just  as  soon 
as  we  can  find  the  road." 

"  Don't  try  it !  "  cried  the  Englishman,  raising  his  cane  aloft  to 
emphasize  his  warning.  "  I  have  n  't  introduced  myself.  I  am  chief 
of  police  for  Chittagong.  The  commissioner  has  given  orders  that 
you  must  not  go.  The  force  has  been  ordered  to  watch  you,  the 
boatmen  forbidden  to  row  you  across  the  river.  Don't  try  it,  or  my 
department  will  be  called  in,"  and  with  that  he  dropped  the  subject 
aj)ruptly  and  launched  forth  into  another  yarn. 

Late  that  night,  when  Rice  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  leave  off 
pounding  atrocious  discords  on  the  piano,  we  made  a  startling  dis- 
covery. There  was  not  a  bed  in  the  Home!  While  James  hurried 
off  to  rout  out  a  servant,  we  of  "  the  States  "  went  carefully  through 
each  room  with  the  parlor  lamp,  peering  under  tables  and  opening 
drawers  in  the  hope  of  finding  at  least  a  ship's  hammock.  We  were 
still  engaged  in  the  search  when  the  Australian  returned  with  a 
frightened  native,  who  assured  us  that  we  were  wasting  our  efforts. 
There  had  never  been  a  bed  nor  a  charpoy  in  the  Home.  Just  why, 
he  could  not  say.  Probably  because  the  manager  babu  had  forgotten 
to  get  them.  Other  sailor  sahibs  had  slept,  he  knew  not  where,  but 
they  had  made  no  protest. 

It  was  too  late  to  appeal  to  the  manager  babu  to  correct  his  over- 
sight. We  turned  in  side  by  side  on  the  pool  table  and  took  turns  in 
falling  off  at  regular  intervals  through  the  night. 

With  the  first  grey  of  dawn  we  slipped  out  the  back  door  of  the 
bungalow  and  struck  off  through  the  forest  towards  the  uninhabited 
river  bank  beyond.  For  in  spite  of  the  warning  of  the  chief  of  police 
and  Rice's  protest  that  we  should  ''  hold  down  such  a  swell  joint  "  as 
long  as  possible,  we  had  decided  by  majority  vote  to  attempt  the 
overland  journey. 

To  elude  the  police  force  was  easy;  to  escape  the  jungle,  quite  a 
different  matter,    A  full  two  hours  we  tore  our  way  through  the 


BEYOND  THE  GANGES  377 

undergrowth  along  the  river  without  finding  a  single  break  in  the 
sheer  eastern  bank  that  we  should  have  dared  to  swim  for.  Rice 
grew  petulant,  our  appetites  aggressive,  and  we  turned  back  prom- 
ising ourselves  to  continue  the  search  for  a  route  on  the  following 
day. 

The  servants  at  the  Home,  knowing  the  predeliction  of  sahibs 
for  morning  strolls,  greeted  our  return  with  grinning  servility  and 
an  ample  chotah  hazry.  While  we  were  eating,  the  chief  of  police 
bounded  into  the  room  with  a  new  story  and  the  information  that 
the  commissioner  wished  to  see  us  at  once;  and  bounded  away  again, 
protesting  that  he  was  being  worked  to  death. 

In  his  bungalow  on  the  hilltop,  the  ruler  of  the  district  was  pacing 
back  and  forth  between  obsequious  rows  of  secretaries  and  assist- 
ants. 

**  I  have  given  orders  that  you  are  not  to  start  for  Mandalay,"  he 
began,  without  preliminary. 

"And  how  the  deuce  will  we  get  out  any  other  way?"  demanded 
James. 

"  If  you  were  killed  in  the  jungle,"  went  on  the  governor,  as  if  he 
had  heard  nothing,  "  your  governments  would  blame  me.  But,  of 
course,  I  have  no  intention  of  keeping  you  in  Chittagong.  I  have  ar- 
ranged, therefore,  with  the  agents  of  the  weekly  steamer  to  give  you 
deck  passages,  with  European  food,  to  Rangoon.  Apply  to  them  at 
once  and  be  ready  to  start  to-morrow  morning." 

This  proposition  found  favor  with  James,  and  with  two  against  me 
I  was  forced  to  yield  or  be  unfaithful  to  our  partnership.  We 
returned  to  the  monastery  that  afternoon  to  bid  the  Irish  bishop  fare- 
well and  to  get  the  note  that  he  had  promised  us.  In  a  blinding  tropical 
shower  we  were  rowed  out  to  the  steamer  Meanachy  next  morning 
and  for  four  days  following  lolled  about  the  winch,  on  the  drum  of 
which  the  Chinese  steward  served  our  "  European  chow."  The 
steamer  drifted  slowly  down  the  eastern  coast  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal, 
touching  at  Akyab,  and,  rounding  the  delta  of  the  Irawaddy  on  the 
morning  of  May  thirteenth,  dropped  anchor  three  hours  later  in  the 
harbor  of  Rangoon. 


CHAPTER  XVIII  \ 

I 

THE   LAND   OF   PAGODAS  ^ 

» 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  wharves,  yet  within  earshot  of  the 
cadenced  song  of  stevedores  and  coal-heavers,  stand  two  shaded 
bungalows,  well-known  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  metrop- 
olis of  Burma.  The  larger  is  the  Sailors'  Home,  the  less  important 
the  Seamen's  Mission.  Rangoon,  it  transpired,  was  suffering  a  double 
visitation  of  beachcombers  and  the  plague.  The  protest  of  the  man- 
agers of  both  mariners'  institutions,  that  they  were  already  *'  full 
up  with  dead  ones,"  gave  us  small  grief.  For  were  we  not  sure  of 
admission  to  a  more  interesting  residence?  But  there  was  real  cause 
for  wailing  in  the  assurance  of  the  cosmopolitan  band  who  listened 
to  the  tale  of  our  "  get-away  "  from  Calcutta,  that  we  had  fallen  on 
one  of  the  least  auspicious  ports  in  the  Orient. 

There  was  work  ashore  for  all  hands,  white  or  brown,  for  the  serv- 
ants of  the  plague  doctors  had  daubed  on  housewalls  throughout  the 
city  the  enticing  offer :  — "  Dead  Rats  —  Two  pice  each."  But  even 
the  penniless  seamen,  who  had  learned  during  long  enforced  residence 
in  the  Burmese  capital  that  their  services  were  useful  in  no  other 
field,  scorned  to  turn  terriers. 

It  was  my  bad  fortune  to  reach  Rangoon  a  bit  too  late  to  be  greeted 
by  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  Up  to  tree  day  ago,"  cried  one  of  the  band  at  the  Home,  "  dere 
was  one  oder  Yank  on  der  beach  here,  ja.  Min  he  made  a  pier'  ead 
yump  by  er  tramp  tru  der  Straits." 

"  That  so  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Aye,"  put  in  another  of  the  boys,  '*  'e  was  a  slim  chap  with  a 
bloody   lot   of  mouth,   always   looking   fer   a   scrap,   but   keepin'    'is  * 
weather-eye  peeled  fer  the  Bobbies." 

**  Bet  a  hat,"  I  shouted,  "  that  I  knew  him.  Was  n  't  his  name  Hay- 
wood ?  " 

"  Dick  'Aywood,  aye,"  answered  the  tar ;  "  leastway  that  was  the 
'andle  'e  went  by.  But  'e  's  off  now  fer  good,  an'  bloody  glad  we 
are  to  be  clear  of  *im." 

378 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  379 

We  struck  off  through  the  city,  taking  leave  of  Rice  before  the 
door  of  the  first  European  official  whose  beneficence  he  chose  to  in- 
vestigate. The  native  town,  squatting  on  the  flat  plain  along  the  river, 
was  reminiscent  of  the  Western  world.  Its  streets  were  wide  and 
parallel,  as  streets  should  be,  no  doubt,  yet  lacking  the  picturesqueness 
of  narrow,  meandering  passageways,  so  common  elsewhere  in  the 
Orient.  Sidewalks  were  there  none,  of  course.  Pedestrians  mingled 
with  vehicles  and  disputed  the  way  with  laden  animals  and  human 
beasts  of  burden.  Before  and  behind,  on  either  side,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see,  stretched  unbroken  vistas  of  heterogeneous  wares  and 
yawning  shopkeepers.  For  to  the  Burman  no  other  vocation  com- 
pares with  that  of  merchant.  A  flat  city  it  was,  with  small,  two- 
story  hovels  for  the  most  part,  above  which  gleamed  a  few  golden 
pagodas. 

In  the  suburbs  the  scene  was  different.  Vine-grown  bungalows 
and  squat  barracks  littered  a  rolling,  lightly-wooded  country  that 
sloped  away  to  a  clear-cut  horizon.  Here  and  there  shimmered  a 
sun-flecked  lake;  along  umbrageous  highways  strolled  khaki-clad 
mortals  with  white  faces  and  a  familiar  vocabulary.  High  above  all 
else,  as  the  Eiffel  tower  over  Paris,  soared  the  pride  of  Burma,  the 
Shwe  Dagon  pagoda. 

We  climbed  the  endless  vaulted  stairway  to  the  sacred  hilltop,  in 
company  with  hundreds  of  natives  bearing  their  shoes,  when  such 
they  possessed,  in  their  hands,  and  amid  the  bedlam  of  clamoring 
hawkers.  Now  and  again  a  pious  pilgrim  glanced  at  our  rough-shod 
feet,  but  smiled  indulgently  and  passed  us  by.  The  village  of  shrines 
at  the  summit  of  the  knoll  was  an  animated  bazaar,  stocked  with  every 
devotional  requisite  from  bottled  arrack  to  pet  snakes.  Even  the 
tables  of  the  money-changers  and  the  desks  of  the  scribes  were  not 
lacking  to  complete  the  picture. 

Barefooted  worshipers,  male  and  female,  wandered  among  the  glit- 
tering topes,  setting  up  candles  or  spreading  out  lotus  blossoms  be- 
fore the  serene-visaged  statues;  kowtowing  now  and  then,  but  puffing 
incessantly,  one  and  all,  at  long  native  cigars.  Near  the  mouth  of 
the  humanity-belching  stairway  creaked  a  diminutive  clothes-reel  over- 
burdened with  such  booty  as  the  red-man,  returned  from  a  scalping 
expedition,  hangs  over  the  entrance  to  his  wigwam.  While  we  mar- 
veled, a  panting  matron  with  close-cropped  head  pushed  past  us  and 
added  to  the  display  a  switch  of  oily,  jet-black  hair.  Her  prayer  had 
been  granted  and  the  shorn  locks  bore  witness  to  her  gratitude. 


38o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Shrines  and  topes  were  but  doll-houses  compared  with  the  central 
mass  of  masonry,  towering  upward  to  neck-craning  height  and  cov- 
ered with  untarnished  gold  from  tapering  apex  to  swollen  base.  It 
was  a  monument  all  too  brilliant  in  the  blazing  sunlight.  Tiny  pa- 
godas floated  before  our  eyes  as  we  glanced  for  relief  into  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  encircling  sanctuaries.  Burmen  from  the  sea  to  the 
sources  of  the  Irawaddy  are  inordinately  proud  of  the  Shwe  Dagon. 
Its  destruction,  they  are  convinced,  would  bring  national  disaster  in 
its  train.  Their  rulers  have  turned  this  superstition  to  account. 
Down  at  the  edge  of  the  cantonment  below,  John  Bull  has  mounted  two 
heavy  cannon  that  are  trained  on  the  pagoda  day  and  night.  A  brief 
word  of  command  from  the  officer  in  charge  would  reduce  the  sacred 
edifice  to  a  tumbled  mass  of  ruins.  Ten  regiments  of  red-coats  would 
be  far  less  effective  than  those  two  pieces  of  ordnance,  in  maintain- 
ing the  sahib  sway  over  Burma. 

Rice  of  Chicago  scorned  to  share  the  simple  life  among  the  wearers 
of  the  yellow  robe.  As  the  day  waned,  he  joined  us  at  the  Home  with 
the  announcement  that  he  had  "  dug  up  a  swell  graft "  among  the 
European  residents  and,  declining  to  disclose  the  details  thereof,  strut- 
ted away  towards  the  harbor. 

We  set  off  alone,  therefore,  the  Australian  and  I,  to  the  monastery 
that  had  witnessed  the  metamorphosis  of  the  erstwhile  Larry 
O'Rourke.  The  far-famed  institution  occupied  an  extensive  estate 
flanking  Godwin  Road,  a  broad,  shaded  thoroughfare  leading  to  the 
Shwe  Dagon.  Its  grounds  were  surrounded  by  a  crumbling  wall  and 
a  shallow,  weed-choked  ditch  that  could  not  be  styled  moat  for  lack 
of  water.  Three  badly-warped  planks,  nailed  together  into  a  draw- 
bridge that  would  not  draw,  led  through  a  breach  in  the  western  wall, 
the  main  entrance,  evidently,  for  many  a  year. 

Inside  was  a  teeming  village  of  light,  two-story  buildings,  with  deep 
verandas  above  and  below,  scattered  pell-mell  about  the  inclosure 
as  if  they  had  been  constructed  in  some  gigantic  carpenter-shop, 
shipped  to  their  destination,  and  left  where  the  expressman  had 
thrown  them  off.  The  irregular  plots  and  courts  between  them  were 
trodden  bare  and  hard  or  were  ankle-deep  in  loose  sand.  Here  and 
there  swayed  a  tall,  untrimmed  tree,  but  within  the  area  was  neither 
grass  nor  flower  nor  garden  patch.  For  the  priest  of  Buddha,  forbid- 
den to  kill  even  a  grub  or  an  earthworm,  may  not  till  the  soil  about 
his  dwelling. 

The  surrounding  town  was  no  more  densely  populated  than  the 


iungalows  along  the  way 


in    iiirri!    nurma 


Women  of  the  Malay  Peninsula  wear  nothing  above  the 
waist-line  and  not  much  below  it 


i 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  381 


monastery  village.  Besides  a  small  army  of  servants,  male  and  fe- 
male, in  layman  garb,  there  v^^ere  yellow-robed  figures  everywhere. 
Wrinkled,  sear-faced  seekers  after  Nirvana  squatted  in  groups  on  the 
verandas,  poring  over  texts  in  the  weak  light  of  the  dying  day.  More 
sprightly  priests,  holding  a  fold  of  their  gowns  over  an  arm,  strolled 
back  and  forth  across  the  barren  grounds.  Scores  of  novices,  small 
boys  and  youths,  saffron-clad  and  hairless  like  their  elders,  flitted  in 
and  out  among  the  buildings,  shouting  gleefully  at  their  games. 

We  turned  to  the  first  bungalow,  a  servants'  cottage  evidently;  for 
there  were  both  men  and  women  and  no  shaven  polls  in  the  group 
that  crowded  the  veranda  railing.  Twice  we  addressed  them  in  Eng- 
lish, once  in  Hindustanee ;  but  the  only  response  was  a  babel  of  strange 
words  that  rose  to  an  uproar.  The  women  screamed  excitedly,  the 
men  shouted  half-angrily,  half-beseechingly  and  motioned  to  us  to  be 
off.  As  we  mounted  the  steps  the  shrieking  folk  took  to  their  heels 
and  tumbled  through  the  doors  of  the  cottage,  or  over  the  ends  of  the 
veranda,  leaving  only  a  few  decrepit  crones  and  grandsires  to  keep  us 
company. 

Here  was  no  such  welcome  as  the  Irishman  had  prophesied;  but 
first  impressions  count  for  little  in  the  Orient,  and  we  sat  down  to 
await  developments.  For  a  time  the  driveling  ancients  stared  vacantly 
upon  us,  mumbling  childishly  to  themselves.  Then  there  arose  a 
chorus  of  excited  whispers;  around  the  corners  of  the  bungalow 
peered  gaping  brown  faces  that  disappeared  quickly  when  we  made 
the  least  movement.  At  last  a  native  whom  we  had  not  seen  before 
advanced  bravely  to  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  Goo'  evening,"  he  stammered,  "  will  you  not  go  way  ?  There  is 
not  plague  in  the  monastery." 

"  Eh!  "  cried  James,  "  We  'd  be  more  like  to  go  if  there  was." 

"  But  are  the  sahibs  not  doctors  ?  "  queried  the  Burman. 

The  suggestion  set  the  Australian  choking  with  laughter. 

"  Doctors !  "  I  gasped,  "  We  're  sailors,  and  we  were  sent  by  Dama- 
laku." 

The  babu  uttered  a  mighty  shout  and  dashed  up  the  steps.  The 
fugitives  swarmed  upon  the  veranda  from  all  sides  and  crowded 
around  us,  laughing  and  chattermg. 

"  They  all  running  way  when  you  coming,"  explained  the  spokes- 
man, **  because  they  thinking  you  plague  doctors  and  they  *fraid." 

"Of  what?"  asked  James. 

"  Sahib  doctors  feel  all  over,"  shuddered  the  babu,  "  not  nice." 


382      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD       | 

Our  errand  explained,  the  interpreter  set  off  to  announce  our  ar- 
rival to  the  head  priest,  and  the  grinning  servants  squatted  in  a  semi- 
circle about  us.  Suddenly  James  raised  a  hand  and  pointed  towards 
the  breach  in  the  wall.  J 

"  Seems  other  beachcombers  know  this  graft,"  he  laughed.  1 

A  burly  negro,  dressed  in  an  old  sweater  of  the  White  Star  line 
and  the  rags  and  tatters  of  what  had  once  been  overalls  and  jumper, 
stepped  into  the  inclosure.  Anxious  to  make  a  favorable  impression 
at  the  outset,  he  had  halted  in  the  street  to  remove  his  shoes,  and, 
carrying  them  in  one  hand,  he  shuffled  through  the  sand  in  his  bare 
feet,  about  the  ankles  of  which  clung  the  remnants  of  a  bright  red 
pair  of  socks.  In  color,  he  was  many  degrees  darker  than  the  Bur- 
mese; and  the  apologetic,  almost  penitent  mien  with  which  he  ap- 
proached struck  the  assembled  natives  as  so  incongruous  in  one  at- 
tired as  a  European  that  they  greeted  him  with  roars  of  laughter. 
When  he  addressed  them  in  English  they  shrieked  the  louder,  and 
left  him  to  stand  contritely  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  until  we,  as  the 
honored  guests  of  the  evening,  had  been  provided  for.  There  is 
needed  more  than  the  whiteman's  tongue  and  garb  to  be  accepted  as 
a  sahib  in  British-India. 

The  babu  returned,  and,  bidding  us  follow,  led  the  way  back  into 
the  village  and  up  the  out-door  stairway  of  one  of  the  largest  bunga- 
lows. Inside,  under  a  sputtering  torch,  squatted  an  aged  priest  of 
sour  and  leathery  countenance.  He  squinted  a  moment  at  us  in 
silence,  and  then  demanded,  through  the  interpreter,  an  account  of  our 
meeting  with  Damalaku.  We  soon  convinced  him  that  the  note  was 
no  forgery.  He  dismissed  us  with  a  grimace  that  might  have  been 
expressive  either  of  mirth  or  annoyance,  and  the  babu  set  off  towards 
a  neighboring  bungalow. 

"  You  are  sleeping  in  here,"  he  said,  stopping  several  paces  from  the 
cottage,  "  Goo'  night." 

"  Thunder ! "  muttered  James,  as  we  started  to  mount  the  steps  to  a 
deserted  veranda,  "  He  might,  at  least,  have  told  'em  what  we  want. 
If  there  's  anything  I  hate,  it 's  talking  to  natives  on  my  fingers  and 
listening  to  their  jabber  all  the  evening  without  an  interpreter. 
He—" 

"  Hello,  Jack ! "  shouted  a  voice  above  us,  "  Where  the  blazes  did 
you  come  from  ?  " 

We  fell  back  in  astonishment  and  looked  up.  Framed  in  the  door- 
way of  the  brightly-lighted  bungalow  stood  a  white  priest. 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  383 

"  Englishmen  ?  "  he  queried. 
"  I  'm  American,"  I  apologized. 

"  The  thunder  you  are !  "  cried  the  priest,  "  So  'm  I.     On  the  beach, 
eh?" 
"  Yep,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,  come  up  on  deck,  mates.  But  first,"  he  added  hastily,  in 
more  solemn  tones,  "  in  respect  for  the  revered  Buddha  and  his  dis- 
ciples, take  off  your  shoes  down  there." 

"  And  socks  ? "  I  asked,  struggling  with  a  knot  in  one  of  my  laces. 
"  Naw,"  returned  the  priest,  "  just  the  kicks." 
We  crossed  the  veranda  and,  having  deposited  our  shoes  in  a  sort 
of  washtub  outside  the  door,  followed  the  renegade  inside. 

The  typical  Indian  bungalow  is  a  very  simple  structure.  The 
Oriental  carpenter  considers  his  task  finished  when  he  has  thrown  to- 
gether —  if  the  actions  of  so  apathetic  a  workman  may  be  so  described 
—  a  frame-work  of  light  poles,  boarded  them  up  on  the  outside, 
and  tossed  a  roof  of  thatch  on  top.  The  interior  he  leaves  to  take 
care  of  itself,  and  the  result  is  a  dwelling  as  rough  and  ungarnished 
as  an  American  hay-loft. 

The  room  in  which  we  found  ourselves  was  some  twenty  feet 
square  and  extremely  low  of  ceiling,  its  skeleton  of  unhewn  beams  all 
exposed,  like  the  ribs  of  a  cargo  steamer.  Two  rectangular  openings 
in  opposite  walls,  innocent  of  frame  or  glass,  admitted  a  current  of 
night  air  that  made  the  chamber  almost  habitable.  In  the  center 
of  the  floor,  which  was  polished  smooth  and  shining  by  the  shufiTe  of 
bare  feet,  was  a  large  grass  mat ;  while  beyond,  on  a  low  dais,  squatted  a 
gorgeous,  life-sized  statue  of  Buddha. 

At  the  moment  of  our  appearance,  a  score  of  native  priests  were 
crouched  on  as  many  small  mats  ranged  round  the  walls.  They  rose 
slowly,  really  agog  with  curiosity,  yet  striving  to  maintain  that  phleg- 
matic air  of  indifference  that  is  cultivated  among  them,  and  grouped 
themselves  about  us.  In  the  brilliant  light  cast  by  several  lamps  and 
long  rows  of  candles  before  the  statue,  we  had  our  first  clear  view  of 
the  American  priest.  He  was  tall  and  thin  of  figure,  yet  sinewy,  with 
a  suggestion  of  hidden  strength.  His  face,  gaunt  and  lantern- jawed, 
was  seared  and  weather-beaten  and  marked  with  the  unmistakable  lines 
of  hardships  and  dissipation.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  a  re- 
cruit from  the  ranks  of  labor.  His  hands  were  coarse  and  dispro- 
portionately large.  As  he  moved  they  hung  half  open,  his  elbows  a 
bit  bent,  as  though  he  were  ready  at  a  word  of  command  to  grasp  a 


384      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

rope  or  a  shovel.  The  rules  of  the  priesthood  had  not  been  framed  to 
enhance  his  particular  style  of  beauty.  A  thick  shock  of  hair  would 
have  concealed  the  displeasing  outline  of  a  bullet  head,  the  yellow 
robe  hung  in  loose  folds  about  his  lank  form,  his  feet  were  broad  and 
stub-toed.  But  it  was  none  of  these  points  in  his  physical  make-up 
that  caused  James  to  choke  with  suppressed  mirth.  A  Buddhist  priest, 
be  it  remembered,  must  ever  keep  aloof  from  things  feminine.  The 
American  had  been  a  sailor,  and  his  bare  arms  were  tattooed  from 
wrist  to  shoulder  with  female  figures  that  would  have  outdone  those 
on  the  raciest  posters  of  a  burlesque  show! 

Our  hosts  placed  mats  for  us  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  brought 
forth  a  huge  bowl  of  rice  and  a  smaller  one  of  blistering  currie. 
While  we  scooped  up  handfuls  alternately  from  the  dishes,  they 
squatted  on  their  haunches  close  at  hand,  watching  us,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, somewhat  hungrily.  The  American  had  not  yet  mastered  the 
native  tongue.  His  interpreter  was  a  youthful  priest  who  spoke 
fluent  English.  With  these  two  at  our  elbows,  the  conversation  did 
not  drag.  The  youth  was  a  human  interrogation  point;  the  convert, 
for  the  nonce,  a  long-stranded  mariner  eager  for  news  of  the  world 
outside.  Were  "  the  boys  "  still  signing  on  in  Liverpool  at  three  pound 
ten?  Did  captains  still  ship  out  of  Frisco  with  shanghaied  crews,  as 
of  yore?  Were  the  Home  in  Marseilles  and  the  Mission  in  Sydney 
still  closed  to  beachcombers?  Was  the  Peter  Rickmers  still  above 
the  waves?  His  questions  fell  fast  and  furious,  interspersed  with 
queries  from  his  companion.  Then  he  grew  reminiscent  and  told  us, 
in  the  vocabulary  of  them  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  tales  of 
his  days  before  the  mast  and  of  his  uninspiring  adventures  in  distant 
ports.  For  the  moment  he  was  plain  Jack  Tar  again,  swapping  yarns 
with  his  fellows. 

The  youth  rose  at  last  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  convert's  shoulder. 
He  started,  blinked  a  moment,  and  glanced  at  his  brilliant  garment. 
Then  he  rose  to  dignified  erectness  and  stood  a  moment  silent,  gazing 
down  upon  us  with  the  half-haughty,  half-pitying  mien  of  a  true  be- 
liever addressing  heathen. 

'"  You  will  excuse  us,"  he  said,  in  his  sacerdotal  voice.  "  It  is  time 
for  our  evening  devotions.'* 

He  moved  with  the  others  to  the  further  side  of  the  room,  where 
each  of  the  band  lighted  a  candle  and  came  to  place  it  on  the  altar. 
Then  all  knelt  on  a  large  mat,  sank^  down  until  their  hips  touched 
their  heels  and,  with  their  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  on  the  serene  counte- 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  385 

nance  of  the  statue,  rocked  their  bodies  back  and  forth  to  the  time  of 
a  chant  set  up  by  one  of  the  youngest  priests.  It  was  a  half-monot- 
onous wail,  rising  and  falling  in  uneven  cadence,  lacking  something  of 
the  solemnity  of  the  chanted  Latin  of  a  Catholic  office,  yet  more  musi- 
cal than  the  three-tone  song  of  the  Arab.  One  theme,  often  repeated, 
grew  familiar  even  to  our  unaccustomed  ears,  a  long-drawn  refrain 
ending  in:  — 

"Vooriy  kalma-a-y  s-a-a-mee," 

which  the  swaying  group,  one  and  all,  caught  up  from  time  to  time 
and  droned  in  deep-voiced  chorus. 

The  worship  lasted  some  twenty  minutes.  When  the  American  re- 
turned to  us,  every  trace  of  the  seaman  —  save  the  tattooing  —  had 
disappeared.  He  was  a  missionary  now,  fired  with  zeal  for  the  "  true 
faith  " ;  though  into  his  arguments  crept  occasionally  a  suggestion  that 
his  efforts  were  less  for  conversion  than  for  self- justification.  Now 
and  again  he  called  on  his  sponsor  in  Buddhist  lore  and  ritual  to  ex- 
patiate on  the  doctrines  he  was  striving  to  set  forth.  The  youth 
needed  no  urging.  He  drew  a  book  from  the  folds  of  his  gown  and, 
for  every  point  brought  up  by  the  American,  read  us  several  pages 
of  dissertations  or  tales  of  the  miracles  performed  by  the  Wandering 
Prince. 

The  hour  grew  late  for  beachcombers.  A  dreadful  fear  assailed 
us  that  the  night  would  be  all  sermon  and  no  sleep.  We  sank  into  an 
open-eyed  doze,  from  which  we  started  up  now  and  then  half  de- 
termined to  turn  Buddhists  that  we  might  be  left  in  peace.  Towards 
midnight  the  propagandists  tired  of  their  monologues  and  rose  to  their 
feet.  The  white  man  led  the  way  to  a  back  room,  littered  with  ket- 
tles and  bowls,  bunches  of  drying  rattan,  and  all  the  odds  and  ends  of 
the  establishment,  and  pointed  out  two  mats  that  the  servants  had 
spread  for  us  on  the  billowy,  yet  yielding  floor  of  split  bamboo. 

"  Take  my  tip,  mate,"  said  the  Australian,  as  we  lay  down  side  by 
side,  **  that  bloke  don't  swallow  any  more  of  this  mess  about  the  trans- 
migration of  souls  than  I  do.     Loafing  in  the  shade  's  his  religion." 

We  were  awakened  soon  after  daylight  by  a  hubbub  of  shrill 
laughter  and  shouts  behind  the  bungalow.  I  rose  and  peered  through 
a  window  opening.  In  the  yard  below,  a  score  of  boys,  some  in  yel- 
low robes,  some  in  nothing  worth  mentioning,  were  engaged  in  a 
game  that  seemed  too  energetic  to  be  of  Oriental  origin.  The  play- 
ers were  divided  into  two  teams ;  but  neither  band  was  limited  to  any 


386       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

particular  part  of  the  field,  and  all  mingled  freely  together  as  they  raced 
about  in  pursuit  of  what  seemed  at  first  sight  to  be  a  small  basket. 
It  was  rather,  as  I  made  out  when  the  game  ceased  an  instant,  a  ball 
about  a  foot  in  diameter,  made  of  open  wickerwork.  This  the  op- 
posing contestants  kicked  alternately,  sending  it  high  in  the  air,  the 
only  rule  of  the  game  being,  apparently,  that  it  should  not  touch  the 
ground  nor  any  part  of  the  player's  body  above  the  knees.  When  this 
was  violated,  the  offending  side  lost  a  point. 

The  wiry,  brown  youths  were  remarkably  nimble  in  following  the 
ball,  and  showed  great  skill  in  returning  it  —  no  simple  matter,  for  they 
could  not  kick  it  as  a  punter  kicks  a  pig-skin  without  driving  their 
bare  toes  through  the  openings.  They  struck  it  instead  with  the  sides 
of  their  feet  or  —  when  it  fell  behind  them  —  with  their  heels ;  yet  they 
often  kept  it  constantly  in  the  air  for  several  minutes.  It  was  a 
typical  Burmese  scene,  with  more  mirth  and  laughter  than  one  could 
have  heard  in  a  whole  city  in  the  land  of  the  morose  and  apathetic 
Hindu. 

The  servants  brought  us  breakfast.  Behind  them  entered  the 
American  priest.  He  squatted  on  the  floor  before  us,  but  refused  to 
partake,  having  risen  to  gorge  himself  at  the  first  peep  of  dawn. 
Whatever  its  original  purpose,  the  rule  forbidding  wearers  of  the  yel- 
low robe  to  eat  after  noonday  certainly  makes  them  early  risers. 

The  meal  over,  we  fished  our  shoes  out  of  the  tub  and,  promising 
the  American  to  return  in  time  for  supper  and  "  evening  devotions/' 
turned  away.  At  the  wooden  bridge  connecting  the  monastery  with 
the  world  outside,  we  met  the  foraging  party  of  novices  returning 
from  their  morning  rounds.  Far  down  the  street  stretched  a  line  of 
priests,  certainly  sixty  in  all,  each  holding  in  his  embrace  a  huge 
bowl,  filled  to  the  brim  with  a  strange  assortment  of  native  food- 
stuffs. 

"  Mate,"  said  James,  later  in  the  morning,  as  we  stood  before  a 
world  map  in  the  Sailors'  Home,  "  it  looks  to  me  as  if  we  'd  bit  off 
more  'n  we  can  chew.  There  's  nothing  doing  in  the  shipping  line 
here,  and  not  a  show  to  earn  the  price  of  a  deck  passage  to  Singa- 
pore. And  if  we  could,  it 's  a  thunder  of  a  jump  from  there  to  Hong 
Kong." 

"  Aye,"  put  in  a  grizzled  seaman,  limping  forward,  "  ye  '11  be  lucky 
lads  if  ye  make  yer  get-away  from  Rangoon.  But  once  ye  get  on 
the  beach  in  Singapore,  ye  '11  die  of  ould  age  afore  iver  ye  see  'Ong 
Kong,  if  that 's  'ow  yer  'eaded.     Why  mates,  that  bloody  'ole  is  alive 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  387 

with  beachcombers  that 's  been  'ung  up  there  sc  long  they  'd  not 
know  'ow  to  eat  with  a  knife  if  iver  they  got  back  to  God's  country. 
Take  my  tip,  an'  give  'er  a  wide  berth." 

"  It  would  seem  foolish  anyway,"  I  remarked,  addressing  James, 
"  to  go  to  Singapore.  It 's  a  good  fifteen  degrees  south  of  here,  a 
week  of  loafing  around  on  some  dirty  tub  to  get  there,  and  a  longer 
jump  back  up  north  —  even  if  we  don't  get  stuck  in  the  Straits." 

"But  what  else?"  objected  James. 

"  Look  how  narrow  the  Malay  Peninsula  is,"  I  went  on,  pointing 
at  the  map.  "  Bangkok  is  almost  due  east  of  here.  We  'd  save  a  lot 
of  travel  by  going  overland,  and  run  no  risk  of  being  tied  up  for 
months  in  Singapore." 

"  But  how  ?  "  demanded  the  Australian. 

"  Walk,  of  course." 

The  sailors  grouped  about  us  burst  out  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Aye,  ye  'd  walk  across  the  Peninsula  like  ye  'd  swim  to  Madras," 
chuckled  one  of  them.  *'  It 's  bats  ye  have  in  yer  belfry,  from  a 
touch   o'   the   sun." 

"  But  Hong  Kong,"  I  began  — 

"  If  it 's  'Ong  Kong,  ye  '11  go  to  Singapore,"  continued  the  sea- 
man, "  or  back  the  other  way.  There  's  no  man  goes  round  the  world 
in  the  north  'emisphere  without  touching  Singapore.  Put  that  down 
in  yer  log.'* 

"  If  we  walk  across  the  Peninsula,"  I  went  on,  still  addressing 
James,  "  it  would  — " 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  "  Askins  "  of  the  party,  "  it  would  be  a  unique 
and  onconventional  way  of  committin'  suicide,  original,  interestin',. 
maybe  slow,  but  damn  sure." 

"  Now  look  'ere,  lads,"  said  the  old  seaman,  almost  tearfully,  "  d'  ye 
know  anything  about  that  country?  There's  no  wilder  savages  no- 
where than  the  Siameese.  I  know  'em.  When  I  was  bo's  'n  on  a 
windjammer  from  the  Straits  to  China,  that's  fourt  —  fifteen  year 
gone,  we  was  blowed  into  the  bay  an'  put  ashore  fer  water.  We 
rowed  by  thousands  o'  dead  babies  floatin'  down  the  river.  We 
'ad  n  't  no  more  'n  stepped  ashore  when  down  come  a  yelpin'  bunch 
o'  Siameese,  with  knives  as  long  as  yer  arm,  an'  afore  we  could  shove 
off  they  'd  killt  my  mate  an'  another  'and  —  chopped  'em  all  to  pieces. 
Them  's  the  Siameese,  an'  the  dacoits  in  the  mountains  is  worse." 

In  short,  the  suggestion  raised  such  an  uproar  of  derision  and 
chatter  among  "  the  boys "   that  we  were   forced  to   retreat  to  the 


388       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

street  to  continue  our  planning.  For  all  the  raillery,  I  was  still  con- 
vinced that  the  overland  trip  was  possible ;  necessary,  in  fact,  for  there 
was  no  other  escape  from  the  city.  "  The  boys  "  might  be  right,  but 
there  was  a  promise  of  new  adventures  in  the  undertaking,  and,  best 
of  all,  the  territory  was  unknown  to  beachcombers.  For  the  truest 
satisfaction  of  the  Wanderlust  is  to  explore  the  world  by  virgin  routes 
and  pose  as  a  bold  pioneer  in  the  rendezvous  of  the  "  profession  "  ever 
after. 

James  asserted  that  he  was  "  game  for  anything,"  and,  though  we 
had  no  intention  of  quitting  Rangoon  for  a  week,  we  turned  our  at- 
tention at  once  to  gathering  information  concerning  the  route.  The 
task  proved  fruitless.  Our  project  was  branded  idiotic  in  terms  far 
more  cutting  than  I  had  heard  even  in  Palestine  and  Syria.  We  ap- 
pealed to  the  American  consul;  we  canvassed  half  the  bungalows  in 
the  cantonment  and  every  European  office  in  the  city ;  we  tramped  far 
out  past  the  Gymkana  station  to  the  headquarters  of  the  Geographical 
Society  of  Burma,  and,  surrounded  by  excited  bands  of  native  clerks, 
pored  over  great  maps  and  folios  ten  feet  square.  All  to  no  purpose. 
The  original  charts  showed  only  wavy,  brown  lines  through  the  heart 
of  the  Peninsula;  and  not  a  resident  of  Rangoon,  apparently,  had  the 
slightest  knowledge  of  the  territory  ten  miles  east  of  the  city. 

Our  inquiries  ended,  as  we  had  dreaded,  by  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  the  police.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  while  we  were  lounging  in 
the  Home,  an  Englishman  in  khaki  burst  in  upon  us. 

"  Are  you  the  chaps,"  he  began,  "  who  are  talking  of  starting  for 
Bangkok  on   foot  ?  " 

"  We  've  been  asking  the  way,"  I  admitted. 

"  Well,  save  yourselves  the  trouble,"  returned  the  officer.  *'  There 
is  no  way.  The  trip  can't  be  made.  You  'd  be  killed  sure,  and  your 
governments  would  come  back  at  us  for  letting  you  go.  I  have  or- 
ders from  the  chief  of  police  that  you  are  not  to  leave  Rangoon  ex- 
cept by  sea,  and  I  have  warned  the  patrolmen  on  the  eastern  side  of 
the  city  to  head  you  oflf.     Thought  I  'd  tell  you." 

"  Thanks,"  said  James,  "  but  we  '11  hold  down  Rangoon  for  a  while 
yet  anyway." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  laughed  the  Englishman.  "  So  the  government  is 
going  to  give  you  a  guide  to  show  you  the  sights.  Come  in,  Pear- 
son!" 

"  Pearson  "  entered,  grinning.  He  was  a  sharp-eyed  Eurasian  in 
uniform,,  gaunt  of  face  and  long  of  limb.     The  Englishman  took  his 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  389 

leave  and  the  half-breed  sat  down  beside  us.  When  we  left  the  Home 
he  followed  us  to  the  monastery.  When  we  slipped  on  our  shoes 
next  morning,  he  was  waiting  for  us  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He  was 
a  pleasant  companion  and  his  stories  were  well  told;  but  we  could  no 
more  shake  him  off  than  we  could  find  work  in  Rangoon.  For  three 
days  he  camped  relentlessly  on  our  trail. 

"  Look  here,  James,"  I  protested,  as  we  were  breakfasting  on  Mon- 
day morning,  "  the  longer  we  hang  around  Rangoon,  the  closer  we  '11 
be  watched.  If  ever  we  get  away,  it  must  be  now,  before  they  think 
we  're  going." 

"  But  Pearson  — "  began  James. 

"  There 's  one  scheme  that  always  works  with  Eurasians,"  I  an- 
swered. 

The  Australian  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Firewater,"  I  murmured. 

"  Swell,"  grinned  James. 

We  put  the  plan  into  execution  at  once,  halting  at  the  first  arrack- 
shop  beyond  the  monastery  to  show  the  detective  our  appreciation  of 
his  services.  By  eight  bells  he  was  the  most  jovial  man  in  Rangoon; 
by  noon  he  felt  in  duty  bound  to  slap  on  the  back  every  European  we 
encountered.  Luckily,  good  cheer  sells  cheaply  in  Burma,  or  the  pro- 
ject would  have  made  a  serious  inroad  on  our  fortune  of  seven 
rupees. 

We  halted,  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  at  an  eating  house  hard  by 
the  Chinese  temple.  The  Eurasian,  alleging  lack  of  appetite,  ignored 
the  plate  of  food  that  was  set  before  him. 

"  See  here,  Pearson,"  I  suggested,  "  you  Ve  been  sticking  close  to 
us  for  a  long  time.  The  government  should  be  proud  of  you.  But  I 
should  think,  after  three  days,  you  'd  like  to  get  a  glimpse  of  your 
wife  and  the  kids." 

"  Yesh,  yesh,"  cried  the  half-breed,  starting  up  with  a  whoop,  "  I  'm 
close  to  'ome  'ere.  I  '11  run  round  a  minute.  Don't  mind,  old  fel, 
eh  ?  I  '11  be  back  fore  you  're  'alf  through,"  and  he  stumbled  off  up 
the    street. 

Once  he  was  out  of  sight,  we  left  our  dinner  unfinished,  and  hur- 
ried back  to  the  Home.  The  manager  was  sleeping.  We  laid  hold 
on  the  knapsack  that  we  had  left  in  his  keeping  and  struck  off  through 
the  crowded  native  town. 

"  This  is  no  good,"  protested  James.  "  All  the  streets  leading  east 
are  guarded." 


390       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD        ' 

"  The  railroad  to  Mandalay  is  n  't,"  I  replied.  "  We  '11  run  up  the 
line  out  of  danger,  and  strike  out  from  there." 

The  Australian  halted  at  a  tiny  drug  store,  and,  arousing  the  bare- 
legged clerk,  purchased  twenty  grains  of  quinine.  "  For  jungle 
fever,"  he  muttered  as  he  tucked  the  package  away  in  his  helmet. 
That  was  our  "  outfit "  for  a  journey  that  might  last  one  month  or 
six.  In  the  knapsack  were  two  cotton  suits  and  a  few  ragged  shirts. 
As  for  weapons,  we  had  not  even  a  penknife. 

Just  beyond  the  drug  store  we  turned  a  corner  and  came  face  to 
face  with  Rice,  sauntering  along  in  the  shade  of  the  shops  as  if  life 
were  a  perpetual  pastime,  a  huge  native  cigar  stuck  in  a  corner  of 
his  frog's  mouth. 

"  We  're  off,  Chi !  "  cried  James,  hardly  lessening  his  pace.  "  Want 
to  go  along  ?  " 

"Eh!"  gasped  our  former  partner,  "Hit  the  trail?  An'  the  rains 
comin'  on  ?  Not  on  yer  tintype.  Ye  're  bughouse  to  quit  this  burg. 
The  graft  is  swell,  an'  I  see  yer  finish  in  the  jungle." 

"  Well,  so  long,"  we  called,  over  our  shoulders. 

A  mile  from  the  Home  we  entered  a  small  suburban  station.  The 
native  policeman  strutting  up  and  down  the  platform  eyed  us  curi- 
ously, but  offered  no  interference.  We  purchased  tickets  to  the  first 
important  town,  and  a  few  moments  later  were  hurrying  northward. 
James  settled  back  in  a  corner  of  the  compartment,  and  fell  to  singing 
in  sotto  voce:  — 

"On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
"Where  the  flying  fishes  play — " 

About  us  lay  low,  rolling  hills,  deep  green  with  tropical  vegetation. 
Behind,  scintillated  the  golden  shaft  of  the  Shwe  Dagon  pagoda, 
growmg  smaller  and  smaller,  until  the  night,  descending  swiftly, 
blotted  it  out.  We  fell  asleep,  and,  awakening  as  the  train  pulled  into 
Pegu,  took  possession  of  two  wicker  chairs  in  the  waiting-room.  A 
babu,  sent  to  rout  us  out,  murmured  an  apology  when  he  had  noted 
the  color  of  our  skins,  and  stole  quietly  away. 

Dawn  found  us  already  astir.  A  fruit-seller  in  the  bazaars,  given 
to  early  rising,  served  us  breakfast  and  we  were  off;  not,  however, 
until  the  sun,  peering  boldly  over  the  horizon,  showed  us  the  way, 
for  we  had  no  other  guide  to  follow. 

A  sandy  highway,  placarded  the  "  Toungoo  Road,"  led  forth  from 
the  village,  skirting  the  golden  pagoda  of  Pegu,  a  rival  of  the  Shwe 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  391 

Dagon ;  but  soon  swung  northward,  and  we  struck  across  an  untracked 
plain.  Far  away  to  the  eastward  a  deep  blue  range  of  rugged  hills, 
forerunners  of  the  wild  mountain  chains  of  the  peninsula,  bounded 
the  horizon ;  but  about  us  lay  a  flat,  monotonous  stretch  of  sandy  low- 
lands, embellished  neither  by  habitation  nor  inhabitant. 

Ten  miles  of  plodding,  with  never  a  mud  hole  in  which  to  quench 
our  thirst,  brought  us  to  a  teeming  bamboo  village  hidden  away  in  a 
tangled  grove.  When  we  had  driven  off  a  canine  multitude  and 
drunk  our  fill,  we  should  have  gone  on  had  not  a  babu  pushed  his  way 
through  the  gaping,  beclouted  throng  and  invited  us  to  his  bungalow. 
He  was  an  employe  of  a  projected  railway  line  from  Pegu  to  Moul- 
mein,  even  then  under  construction,  that  was  to  bring  him,  on  the  day 
of  its  completion,  the  coveted  title  of  station-master.  In  anticipation 
of  that  honor  he  had  already  donned  a  brilliant  uniform  of  his  own 
designing,  the  sight  of  which  filled  his  fellow  townsmen  with  unut- 
terable awe. 

We  squatted  with  him  on  the  floor  of  his  open  hut  and  dispatched 
a  dinner  of  rice,  fruit,  and  bread-cakes  —  and  red  ants;  no  Burmese 
lunch  would  be  complete  without  the  latter.  When  we  offered  pay- 
ment for  the  meal,  the  babu  rose  up  chattering  with  indignation  and 
would  not  be  reconciled  until  we  had  patted  him  on  the  back  and 
hidden  our  puerile   fortune   from  view. 

Railways  are  strictly  handmade  in  Burma.  Within  hail  of  the 
village  appeared  the  first  mound  of  earth,  its  summit  some  feet  above 
the  high-water  mark  of  flood  time;  and  a  few  miles  beyond  we  came 
upon  a  construction  gang  at  work.  There  were  neither  steam  cranes, 
"  slips,"  nor  "  wheelers  "  to  scoop  up  the  earth  of  the  paddy-fields. 
Of  the  band,  full  three  hundred  strong,  a  few  toiled  with  shovels 
in  the  shallow  trenches;  the  others  swarmed  up  the  embankment 
in  endless  file,  carrying  flat  baskets  of  earth  on  their  heads.  They 
were  Hindus,  one  and  all,  of  both  sexes;  for  the  Burman  scorns 
coolie  labor.  The  workers  toiled  steadily,  mechanically,  though  ever 
at  a  snail's  pace,  and  the  basketfuls  fell  too  rapidly  to  be  counted. 
But  many  thousands  raised  the  mound  only  an  inch  higher;  and, 
where  the  grading  had  but  begun,  one  day's  labor  did  not  suffice  to 
cover  the  short  grass. 

Beyond,  were  other  gangs  and  between  them  deserted  trenches  and 
sections  of  embankment.  The  dyke  was  not  continuous.  The  company 
sub-let  the  grading  by  the  cubic  yard  to  dozens  of  Hindu  contractors, 
each  of  whom,  having  staked  out  some  ten  rods  along  the  right  of 


392       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 


way,  threw  up  a  ridge  of  the  required  height  and  moved  on  with  his 
band  to  the  head  of  the  line.  Their  trenches  were  sharp-cornered, 
flat-bottomed,  and  contained  Httle  pagoda-shaped  mounds  of  earth 
with  a  tuft  of  grass  on  top,  by  which  the  depth  could  be  estimated. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  we  came  upon  a  small,  sluggish  stream,  be- 
yond which  stood  a  two-story  bungalow  of  unusual  magnificence  for 
this  corner  of  the  world.  A  rope  was  stretched  from  shore  to  shore, 
and  the  primitive  ferry  to  which  it  was  attached  was  tied  up  at  the 
western  bank.  We  boarded  the  raft  and  had  all  but  pulled  ourselves 
across  when  a  greeting  in  our  own  tongue  drew  our  attention  to  the 
bungalow.  On  the  veranda  stood  an  Englishman,  bareheaded  and 
smiling. 

James  sprang  hastily  ashore,  leaving  me  to  bring  up  the  rear  —  and 
the  knapsack;  but  at  the  top  of  the  bank  he  stopped  suddenly  and 
grasped  me  by  the  arm. 

"  Holy  dingoes !  "  he  gasped.  "  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?  I  'm  a 
Hottentot  if  it  is  n  't  a  white  woman !  " 

It  was,  sure  enough.  Beside  the  Englishman  stood  a  youthful 
memsahib,  in  snow-white  gown.  A  millinery  shop  could  not  have 
looked  more  out  of  place  in  these  blistered  paddy  fields  of  the  Ira- 
waddy  delta. 

"  Trouble  you  for  a  drink  of  water  ? "  I  panted,  halting  in  the 
shade  of  the  bungalow,  which,  like  all  dwellings  in  this  region,  stood 
some  eight  feet  above  the  ground,  on  bamboo  stilts. 

"  A  drink  of  water!  "  cried  the  lady,  smiling  down  upon  us.  '*  Do 
you  think  we  see  white  men  so  often  that  we  let  them  go  as  easily 
as  that?    Come  up  here  at  once." 

"  We  're  just  sitting  down  to  lunch,"  said  the  man.  "  I  had  covers 
laid  for  you  as  soon  as  you  hove  in  sight." 

"  Thanks,"  I  answered,  "  we  had  lunch  three  hours  ago." 

"  Great   Caesar !     Where  ?  "  gasped  the   Englishman. 

"  In  a  bamboo  vil  — " 

"  What !  Native  stuflf  ?  "  he  cried,  while  the  lady  shuddered,  *'  With 
red  ants,  eh  ?  Well,  then,  you  Ve  been  famished  for  an  hour  and  a 
half." 

We  could  not  deny  it,  so  we  mounted  to  the  veranda. 

"  Put  your  luggage  in  the  corner,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  Do  you 
prefer  lemonade  or  seltzer  ?  " 

I  dropped  the  bedraggled  knapsack  on  the  top  step  and  followed 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  393 

my  companion  inside.  In  our  vagabond  garb,  covered  from  crown  to 
toe  with  the  dust  of  the  route,  the  perspiration  drawing  fantastic  ara- 
besques in  the  grime  on  our  cheeks,  we  felt  strangely  out  of  place  in 
the  daintily-furnished  bungalow.  But  our  hosts  would  not  hear  our 
excuses.  When  our  thirst  had  been  quenched,  we  followed  the  Eng- 
lishman to  the  bathroom  to  plunge  our  heads  and  arms  into  great 
bowls  of  cold  water  and,  greatly  refreshed,  took  our  places  at  the 
table. 

The  Burmese  cook  who  slipped  noiselessly  in  and  out  of  the  room 
was  a  magician,  surely,  else  how  could  he  have  prepared  in  this  out- 
post of  civilization  such  a  dinner  as  he  served  us  —  even  without  red 
ants?  If  conversation  lagged,  it  was  chiefly  the  Australian's  fault. 
His  remarks  were  ragged  and  brief;  for,  as  he  admitted  later  in  the 
day :  "  It 's  so  bloody  long  since  I  Ve  talked  to  a  white  man  that  I 
was  afraid  of  making  a  break  every  time  I  opened  my  mouth." 

The  Englishman  was  superintendent  of  construction  for  the  western 
half  of  the  line.  He  had  been  over  the  route  to  Moulmein  on 
horseback,  and  though  he  had  never  known  a  white  man  to  attempt 
the  journey  on  foot,  he  saw  no  reason  why  we  could  not  make  it  if  we 
could  endure  native  "  chow  "  and  the  tropical  sun.  But  he  scoffed  at 
the  suggestion  that  any  living  mortal  could  tramp  from  Moulmein  to 
Bangkok,  and  advised  us  to  give  up  at  once  so  foolhardy  a  venture, 
and  to  return  to  Rangoon  as  we  had  come.  We  would  not,  and  he 
mapped  out  on  the  table-cloth  the  route  to  the  frontier  town,  pricking 
off  each  village  with  the  point  of  his  fork.  When  we  declined  the  in- 
vitation to  spend  the  night  in  his  bungalow,  even  his  wife  joined  him 
in  vociferous  protest.  But  we  pleaded  haste,  and  took  our  leave  with 
their  best  wishes. 

"  If  you  can  walk  fast  enough  to  reach  Sittang  to-night,"  came  the 
parting  word,  "  you  will  find  a  division  engineer  who  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you.     That  is,  if  you  can  get  across  the  river." 

**  It 's  Sittang  or  bust,"  said  James,  as  we  took  up  the  pace  of  a 
forced  march. 

Nightfall  found  us  still  plodding  on  in  jungled  solitude.  It  was 
long  afterwards  that  we  were  brought  to  a  sudden  halt  at  the  baritc 
of  the  Sittang  river.  Under  the  moon's  rays,  the  broad  expanse  of 
water  showed  dark  and  turbulent,  racing  by  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
mountain  stream.  The  few  lights  that  twinkled  high  up  above  the 
opposite  shore  were  nearly  a  half-mile  distant  —  too  far  to  swim  in 


394      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

that  rushing  flood  even  had  we  had  no  knapsack  to  think  of.  I  tore 
myself  free  from  the  undergrowth  and,  making  a  trumpet  of  my  hands, 
bellowed  across  the  water. 

For  a  time  only  the  echo  answered.  Then  a  faint  cry  was  borne 
to  our  ears,  and  we  caught  the  Hindustanee  words  "  Quam  hai  ? " 
(Who  is  it?).     I  took  deep  breath  and  shouted  into  the  night:  — 

"  Do  sahib  hai !     Engineer  sampan,  key  sampan  keyderah  ?  " 

A  moment  of  silence  and  the  answer  came  back,  soft  yet  distinct, 
like  a  near-by  whisper:  — 

"  Acha,  sahib."  (All  right.)  Even  at  that  distance  we  recognized 
the  deferential  tone  of  the  Hindu  coolie. 

A  speck  of  light  descended  to  the  level  of  the  river,  and,  rising  and 
falling  irregularly,  came  steadily  nearer.  We  waited  eagerly,  yet 
a  half-hour  passed  before  there  appeared  a  flat-bottomed  samphn, 
manned  by  three  struggling  Aryans  whose  brown  skins  gleamed  in  the 
light  of  a  flickering  lantern.  They  took  for  granted  that  we  were 
railway  officials,  and,  while  two  wound  their  arms  around  the  bushes, 
the  third  sprang  ashore  with  a  respectful  greeting  and,  picking  up  our 
knapsack,  dropped  into  the  craft  behind  us. 

With  a  shout  the  others  let  go  of  the  bushes  and  the  three  grasped 
their  oars  and  pulled  with  a  will.  The  racing  current  carried  us  far 
down  the  river,  but  we  swung  at  last  into  the  more  sluggish  water 
under  the  lee  of  a  bluff,  and,  creeping  slowly  up  stream,  gained  the 
landing  stage.  A  boatman  stepped  out  with  our  bundle,  and,  zig- 
zagging up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  dropped  the  bag  on  the  veranda  of  a 
bungalow  at  the  summit,  shouted  a  "  sahib  hai,"  and  fled  into  the  night. 

The  Englishman  who  flung  open  the  door  with  a  bellow  of  de- 
light* was  a  boisterous,  whole-hearted  giant  of  a  far  diflferent  type 
from  our  noonday  host ;  a  soldier  of  fortune  who  had  *'  mixed  "  in 
every  activity  from  railway  building  to  revolutions  in  three  continents, 
and  whose  geographical  information  was  far  more  extensive  than  that 
to  be  found  in  a  Rand-McNally  atlas.  His  bungalow  was  a  palace  in 
the  wilderness ;  he  confided  that  he  drew  his  salary  to  spend,  and 
that  he  paid  four  rupees  a  pound  for  Danish  butter  without  a  pang 
of  regret.  The  light  of  his  household,  however,  was  his  Eurasian 
wife,  the  most  entrancing  personification  of  loveliness  that  I  have 
been  privileged  to  run  across  in  my  wanderings.  The  rough  life 
of  the  jungle  seemed  only  to  have  made  her  more  daintily  feminine. 
One  would  have  taken  his  oath  that  she  had  just  budded  into  woman- 
hood, even  in  face  of  the  four  sons  that  rolled  about  the  bungalow ; 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  395 

plump-cheeked,  robust  little  tots,  with  enough  native  blood  in  their 
veins  to  thrive  in  a  land  where  children  of  white  parents  waste  away 
to  apathetic  invalids. 

We  slept  on  the  veranda  high  above  the  river,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
thirty-two  miles  in  our  legs  and  the  fever  that  fell  upon  James  during 
the  night,  rose  with  the  dawn,  eager  to  be  off.  As  we  took  our  leave, 
the  engineer  held  out  to  us  a  handful  of  rupees. 

"  Just  to  buy  your  chow  on  the  way,  lads,"  he  smiled. 
"  No  1   no !  "   protested   James,   edging   away.     "  We  've   bled   you 
enough  already." 

"  Tommy  rot !  "  cried  the  adventurer,  "  Don't  be  an  ass.  We  've  all 
been  in  the  same  boat  and  I  'm  only  paying  back  a  little  of  what 's 
fallen  to  me." 

When  we  still  refused,  he  called  us  cranks  and  no  true  soldiers  of 
fortune,  and  took  leave  of  us  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda. 

Sittang  was  a  mere  bamboo  village  with  a  few  grass-grown  streets 
that  faded  away  in  the  encircling  wilderness.  In  spite  of  explicit  direc- 
tions from  the  engineer,  we  lost  the  path  and  plunged  on  for  hours  al- 
most at  random  through  a  tropical  forest.  Noonday  had  passed  before 
we  broke  out  upon  an  open  plain  where  the  railway  embankment  began 
anew,  and  satiated  our  screaming  thirst  with  cocoanut  milk  in  the  hut  of 
a  babu  contractor. 

Beyond,  walking  was  less  difficult.  The  rampant  jungle  had  been 
laid  open  for  the  projected  line;  and,  when  the  tangle  of  vegetation 
pressed  upon  us,  we  had  only  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  broken  dyke 
and  plod  on.  The  country  was  not  the  unpeopled  waste  of  the  day 
before.  Where  bananas  and  cocoanuts  and  jack-fruits  grow,  there 
are  human  beings  to  eat  them,  and  now  and  then  a  howling  of  dogs 
drew  our  attention  to  a  cluster  of  squalid  huts  tucked  away  in  a  pro- 
ductive grove.  Every  few  miles  were  gangs  of  coolies  who  fell  to 
chattering  excitedly  when  we  came  in  view,  and,  dropping  shovels  and 
baskets,  squatted  on  their  heels,  staring  until  we  had  passed,  nor  heed- 
ing the  frenzied  screaming  of  high-caste  "  straw-bosses."  Substantial 
bungalows  for  advancing  engineers  were  building  on  commanding  em- 
inences along  the  way.  The  carpenters  were  Chinamen,  slow  work- 
men when  judged  by  Western  standards,  but  evincing  far  more  energy 
than  native  or  Hindu. 

The  migratory  Mongul,  rare  in  India,  unknown  in  Asia  Minor,  has 
invaded  all  the  land  of  Burma.  Few  indeed  are  the  villages  to  which 
at  least  one  wearer  of  the  pig-tail  has  not  found  his  way  and  made 


396      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

himself  a  force  in  the  community.  His  household  commonly  consists 
of  a  Burmese  wife  and  a  troop  of  half-breed  children ;  and  it  is  whis- 
pered that  the  native  women  are  by  no  means  loath  to  mate  with  these 
aliens,  who  often  prove  more  tolerant  and  provident  husbands  than 
the  Burmen. 

Those  Celestial  residents  with  whom  we  came  in  contact  were 
shrewd,  grasping  fellows,  far  different  from  the  gay  and  prodigal  na- 
tive merchants.  The  pair  in  whose  shop  we  stifled  an  overgrown 
hunger,  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  received  us  coldly  and  served  us  in 
moody  silence.  Their  stock  in  trade  was  exclusively  canned  goods 
among  which  American  labels  were  not  lacking.  Their  prices,  too, 
were  reminiscent  of  the  Western  world.  When  we  had  paid  them 
what  we  knew  was  a  just  amount,  they  hung  on  our  heels  for  a  half- 
mile,  screaming  angrily  and  clawing  at  our  tattered  garments. 

Where  the  western  section  of  the  embankment  ended  began  a  more 
open  country,  with  many  a  sluggish  stream  to  be  forded.  We  were 
already  knee-deep  in  the  first  of  these  when  there  sounded  close  at 
hand  a  snort  like  the  blowing  of  a  whale.  I  glanced  in  alarm  at  the 
rushes  about  us.  From  the  muddy  water  protruded  a  dozen  ugly, 
black  snouts. 

"  Crocodiles ! "  screamed  James,  turning  tail  and  splashing  by  me. 
"Beat  it!" 

"  But  hold  on ! "  I  cried,  before  we  had  regained  the  bank,  "  These 
things  seem  to  have  horns." 

The  creatures  that  had  startled  us  were  harmless  water  buffaloes, 
which,  being  released  from  their  day*s  labor,  had  sought  relief  in  the 
muddy  stream  from  flies  and  the  blazing  sun. 

As  the  day  was  dying,  we  entered  a  jungle  city,  named  Kaikto,  and 
jeopardized  the  honor  in  which  sahibs  are  held  in  that  metropolis  of 
the  delta  by  accepting  a  "  shake-down  "  in  the  police  barracks.  From 
there  the  route  turned  southward,  and  the  blazing  sun  beat  in  our 
faces  during  all  the  third  day's  tramp.  Villages  became  more  numer- 
ous, more  thickly  populated,  and  the  jungle  was  broken  here  and  there 
by  thirsty  paddy-fields. 

When  twilight  fell,  however,  we  were  tramping  along  the  railway 
dyke  between  two  dense  and  apparently  unpeopled  forests.  The  signs 
portended  a  night  out  of  doors,  and  we  were  already  resigned  to  that 
fate  when  we  came  upon  a  path  leading  from  the  foot  of  the  embank- 
ment across  the  narrow  ridge  between  two  excavations.  Hoping  to 
find  some  thatch  shelter  left  by  the  construction  gangs,  we  turned 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  397 

aside  and  stumbled  down  the  bank.  The  trail  wound  away  through 
the  jungle  and  brought  us,  a  mile  from  the  line,  to  a  grassy  clearing, 
in  the  center  of  which  stood  a  capacious  dak  bungalow. 

Public  rest-houses  of  this  sort  are  maintained  by  the  government 
of  British-India,  where  no  other  accommodations  offer,  for  the  hous- 
ing of  itinerant  sahibs.  They  are  equipped  with  rough  sleeping  quar- 
ters for  a  few  guests,  rougher  bathing  facilities,  a  few  reclining  chairs, 
and  a  babu  keeper  to  register  travelers  and  entertain  them  with  his 
wisdom ;  for  all  of  which  a  uniform  charge  of  one  rupee  a  day  is 
made.  There  is,  besides,  a  force  of  native  servants  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  those  who  would  pay  more.  A  punkah-wallah  will  keep  the 
velvet  fans  in  motion  all  through  the  night  for  a  few  coppers ;  the 
choivkee  dar  or  Hindu  cook  will  prepare  a  "  European  "  meal  on  more 
or  less  short  notice. 

But  the  bungalow  that  we  had  chanced  upon  in  this  Burmese  wil- 
derness was  apparently  deserted.  We  mounted  the  steps  and,  settling 
ourselves  in  veranda  chairs,  lighted  our  pipes  and  stretched  our  weary 
legs.  We  might  have  fallen  asleep  where  we  were,  listening  to  the 
humming  of  the  tropical  night,  had  we  not  been  hungry  and  choking 
with  thirst. 

The  bungalow  stood  wide  open,  like  every  house  in  British-India. 
I  rose  and  wandered  through  the  building,  lighting  my  way  with 
matches  and  peering  into  every  corner  for  a  water  bottle  or  a  sleeping 
servant.  In  each  of  the  two  bedrooms  there  were  two  canvas  char- 
poys ;  in  the  main  room  a  table  littered  with  tattered  books  and  maga- 
zine leaves  in  English;  in  the  back  chamber  several  pots  and  kettles. 
There  was  water  in  abundance,  a  tubful  of  it  in  the  lattice-work  closet 
opening  off  from  one  of  the  bedrooms.  But  who  could  say  how 
many  travel-stained  sahibs  had  bathed  in  it? 

I  returned  to  the  veranda,  and  we  took  to  shouting  our  wants  into 
the  jungle.  Only  the  jungle  replied,  and  we  descended  the  steps  for 
a  circuit  of  the  building,  less  in  the  hope  of  encountering  anyone 
than  to  escape  the  temptation  of  the  bathtub.  Behind  the  bunga- 
low stood  three  ragged  huts.  The  first  was  empty.  In  the  second,  we 
found  a  snoring  Hindu,  stretched  on  his  back  on  the  dirt  floor,  close  to 
a  dying  fire  of  fagots. 

We  awoke  him  quickly.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  frightened 
"  acha,  sahib,  pawnee  hai,"  and  ran  to  fetch  a  chettie  of  water,  not 
because  we  had  asked  for  it,  but  because  he  knew  the  first  requirement 
of  travelers  in  the  tropics. 


398       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Now  we  would  eat,  oh,  chowkee  dar,"  said  James,  in  Hindustanee, 
"  julty  karow." 

"  Acha,  sahib,"  repeated  the  cook.  He  tossed  a  few  fagots  on  the 
fire,  set  a  kettle  over  them,  emptied  into  it  the  contents  of  another 
chettie,  and,  catching  up  a  blazing  stick,  trotted  with  a  loose-kneed 
wabble  to  the  third  hut.  There  sounded  one  long-drawn  squawk,  a 
muffled  cackling  of  hens,  and  the  Hindu  returned,  holding  a  chicken 
by  the  head  and  swinging  it  round  and  round  as  he  ran.  Catching 
up  a  knife,  he  slashed  the  fowl  from  throat  to  tail,  snatched  off  skin 
and  feathers  with  a  few  dexterous  jerks,  and  less  than  three  minutes 
after  his  awakening,  our  supper  was  cooking.  Truly,  the  serving  of 
sahibs  had  imbued  him  with  an  unoriental  energy. 

We  returned  to  the  veranda,  followed  by  the  chokee  dar,  who 
lighted  a  decrepit  lamp  on  the  table  within  and  trotted  away  into  the 
jungle.  He  came  back  at  the  heels  of  a  native  in  multicolored  garb  of 
startling  brilliancy,  who  introduced  himself  as  the  custodian,  and, 
squatting  on  his  haunches  in  a  veranda  chair,  took  up  his  duties  as 
entertainer  of  guests.  There  was  not  another  that  spoke  English 
within  a  day's  journey,  he  assured  us,  swelling  with  pride;  and  for 
that  we  were  duly  thankful.  Long  after  the  cook  had  carried  away 
the  plates  and  the  chicken  bones,  the  babu  chattered  on,  drawing  upon 
an  apparently  unlimited  fund  of  misinformation,  and  jumping,  as 
each  topic  was  exhausted,  to  a  totally  irrelevant  one,  without  a  pause 
either  for  breath  or  ideas.  Fortunately,  he  had  arrived  with  the  no- 
tion that  we  were  surveyors  of  the  new  line,  and  we  took  good  care 
not  to  undeceive  him ;  for  railway  officials  were  entitled  to  the  ac- 
commodations of  dak  bungalows  without  payment  of  the  government 
fee.  We  still  had  a  few  coppers  left,  therefore,  when  the  cook  had 
been  satisfied,  and,  driving  off  the  inexhaustible  keeper,  we  rolled  our 
jackets  and  shoes  into  two  "  beachcomber's  pillows  "  and  turned  in. 

We  slept  an  hour  or  two,  perhaps,  during  the  night.  Of  all  the 
hardships  that  befall  the  wayfarer  in  British-India,  none  grows  more 
unendurable  than  this  —  to  be  kept  awake  when  he  most  needs  sleep. 
Either  his  resting  place  —  to  call  it  a  bed  would  be  worse  than  inac- 
curate —  is  too  hard,  or  the  heat  so  sultry  that  the  perspiration  trickles 
along  his  ribs,  tickling  him  into  wakefulness.  If  a  band  of  natives  is 
not  chattering  under  his  windows,  a  fellow  roadster  snoring  beside 
him,  or  a  flock  of  roosters  greeting  every  newborn  star,  there  are  a 
dozen  lizards  at  least  to  make  the  night  miserable. 

The  dak  bungalow  in  the  wilderness  housed  a  whole  army  of  these 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  399 

pests ;  great,  green-eyed  reptiles  from  six  inches  to  a  foot  long.  Barely 
was  the  lamp  extinguished,  when  one  in  the  ceiling  struck  up  his  re- 
frain, another  on  the  wall  beside  me  joined  in,  two  more  in  a  corner 
gave  answering  cry,  and  the  night  concert  was  on:  — 

"She-kak!  she-kak!  she-kak!" 

Don't  fancy  for  a  moment  that  the  cry  of  the  Indian  lizard  is  the 
half-audible  murmur  of  the  cricket  or  the  tree  toad.  It  sounds  much 
more  like  the  squawking  of  an  ungreased  bullock-cart:  — 

"She-kak!  she-kak!  she-kak!" 

To  attempt  to  drive  them  off  was  worse  than  useless.  The  walls 
and  ceiling,  being  of  thatch,  offered  more  hiding  places  for  creeping 
things  than  a  hay  stack.  When  I  fired  a  shoe  at  the  nearest,  a  shower 
of  branches  and  rubbish  rattled  to  the  floor;  and,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  the  song  began  again,  louder  than  before.  Either  the  creatures 
were  clever  dodgers  or  invulnerable,  and  there  was  always  the  danger 
that  a  swiftly-thrown  missile  might  bring  down  half  the  thatch  parti- 
tion :  — 

"  She-kak  1  she-kak !  she-kak !  " 

Wherever  there  are  dweUings  in  British-India,  there  are  croaking 
lizards.  I  have  listened  to  their  shriek  from  Tuticorin  to  Delhi ;  I 
have  seen  them  darting  across  the  carpeted  floor  in  the  bungalows  of 
commissioner  sahibs ;  I  have  awakened  many  a  time  to  find  one  drag- 
ging his  clammy  way  across  my  face.  But  nowhere  are  they  more 
numerous  nor  more  brazen-voiced  than  in  the  jungles  of  the  Malay 
Peninsula.  There  came  a  day  when  we  were  glad  that  they  had  not 
been  exterminated  —  but  of  that  later. 

Early  the  next  morning  we  fell  into  a  passable  roadway  that  led 
us  every  half-hour  through  a  grinning  village,  between  which  were 
many  isolated  huts.  We  stopped  at  all  of  them  for  water.  The  na- 
tives showed  us  marked  kindness,  often  awaiting  us,  chettie  in  hand, 
or  running  out  into  the  highway  at  our  shout  of  "  yee  sheedela  ?  " 
This  Burmese  word  for  water  (yee)  gave  James  a  great  deal  of  in- 
nocent amusement.  Ever  and  anon  he  paused  before  a  hut,  to  drawl, 
in  the  voice  of  a  court  crier :  — *'  Hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  hear  ye  !  We  're 
thirsty  as  Hottentots  !  "  Householders  young  and  old  understood.  At 
least  they  fetched  us  water  in  abundance. 

The  fourth  day  afoot  brought  two  misfortunes.  The  rainy  season, 
long  delayed,  burst  upon  us  in  pent-up  fury  not  an  hour  after  we  had 


400      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

spent  our  last  copper  for  breakfast.  Where  dinner  would  come  from 
we  could  not  surmise,  but  "  on  the  road "  one  does  not  waste  his 
energies  in  worry.  Something  would  "  turn  up."  It  is  in  wander- 
ing aimlessly  about  the  streets  of  a  great  city  in  the  midst  of  plenty 
that  the  penniless  outcast  feels  the  inexorable  hand  of  fate  at  his 
throat  —  not  on  the  open  road  among  the  fields  and  flowers  and  wav- 
ing palm  trees. 

The  first  shower  came  almost  without  warning;  one  sullen  roar  of 
thunder,  the  heavens  opened,  and  the  water  poured.  Thereafter  they 
were  frequent.  At  times  some  hut  gave  us  shelter;  more  often  we 
could  only  plod  on  in  the  blinding  torrent  that,  in  the  twinkle  of  an 
eye,  drenched  us  to  the  skin.  The  storms  were  rarely  of  five  minutes' 
duration.  With  the  last  dull  growl  of  thunder,  the  sun  burst  out  more 
calorific  than  before,  sopping  up  the  pools  in  the  highway  as  with  a 
gigantic  sponge,  and  drying  our  dripping  garments  before  we  had 
time  to  grumble  at  the  wetting.  Amid  the  extravagant  beauties  of 
the  tropical  landscape  the  vagaries  of  the  season  were  so  quickly  for- 
gotten that  the  next  downpour  took  us  as  completely  by  surprise  as 
though  it  had  been  the  first  of  the  season. 

During  the  morning  we  met  a  funeral  procession  en  route  for  the 
place  of  cremation.  Wailing  and  mourning  there  were  none.  Why 
should  death  bring  grief  to  the  survivors  when  the  deceased  has  merely 
lost  one  of  his  innumerable  lives?  There  came  first  of  all  dozens  of 
girls  dressed  as  for  a  yearly  festival.  About  their  necks  were  gar- 
lands of  flowers ;  in  their  jet-black  hair,  red  and  white  blossoms.  Each 
carried  a  flat  basket,  heaped  high  with  offerings  that  made  us  envious 
of  him  who  had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers.  Here  one  bore  bananas 
of  brightest  yellow;  another,  golden  mangoes;  a  third,  great,  plump 
pineapples.  The  girls  held  the  baskets  high  above  their  heads,  swaying 
their  bodies  from  side  to  side  and  tripping  lightly  back  and  forth 
across  the  road  as  they  advanced,  the  long  cortege  executing  such  a 
snake-dance  as  one  sees  on  a  college  gridiron  after  a  great  contest. 
The  chant  that  rose  and  fell  in  time  with  their  movements  sounded 
less  a  dirge  than  a  pean  of  victory ;  now  and  again  a  singer  broke  out 
in  merry  laughter.  The  coffin  was  a  wooden  box,  gayly  decked  with 
flowers  and  trinkets,  and  three  of  the  eight  men  who  bore  it  on  their 
shoulders  were  puffing  at  long  native  cigars.  Behind  them  more  men, 
led  by  two  saffron-clad  priests,  pattered  through  the  dust,  chattering 
like  school  girls,  yet  adding  their  discordant  voices  now  and  then  to 
the  cadenced  chorus  of  the  females. 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  401 

The  sun  was  blazing  directly  overhead,  leaving  our  pudgy  shadows 
to  be  trampled  under  foot,  when  we  heard  behind  us  a  faint  wail  of 
"sahib!  sahib."  Far  down  the  green-framed  roadway  trotted  a  be- 
clouted  brown  man,  waving  his  arms  above  his  head.  We  were  already 
fifteen  miles  distant  from  the  dak  bungalow ;  small  wonder  if  we  were 
surprised  to  find  our  pursuer  none  other  than  that  chowkee  dar  who 
had  skinned  our  chicken  so  deftly  the  night  before.  A  misgiving  fell 
upon  us.  No  doubt  the  fellow  had  found  out  that  we  were  no  railway 
officials  after  all,  and  had  come  to  demand  the  bungalow  fee  of  two 
rupees.  We  stepped  into  the  shade  and  awaited  anxiously  the  brown- 
skinned  nemesis. 

But  there  was  no  cause  for  alarm.  Amid  his  chattering  the  night 
before,  the  babu  custodian  had  forgotten  his  first  duty  —  to  register 
us.  When  his  error  came  to  light,  we  were  gone;  and  he  had  sent 
the  cook  to  get  our  names.  That  was  all ;  and  for  that  the  Hindu  had 
run  the  entire  fifteen  miles.  When  we  had  scribbled  our  names  on 
the  limp,  wet  rag  of  paper  he  carried  in  his  hand,  he  turned  aside  from 
the  road  and  threw  himself  face  down  in  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

The  beauties  of  the  landscape  impressed  themselves  less  and  less 
upon  us  with  every  mile  thereafter.  Not  that  our  surroundings  had 
lost  anything  of  their  charm,  the  scenery  was  rather  more  striking; 
but  the  dinner  hour  had  passed  and  our  bellies  had  begun  to  pinch  us. 
The  Burmese,  we  had  been  told,  were  charitable  to  a  fault.  But  what 
use  to  "  batter "  back  doors,  when  we  knew  barely  a  dozen  words 
of  the  native  tongue?  Here  and  there  a  bunch  of  bananas  hung  at 
the  top  of  its  stocky  tree,  but  the  fruit  was  hopelessly  green ;  cocoanuts 
there  were  in  abundance,  but  they  supplied  drink  rather  than  food. 
Still  hunger  grew  apace.  The  only  alternative  to  starving  left  us 
was  to  exploit  the  shopkeepers, —  to  eat  our  fill  and  run  away. 

We  chose  a  well -stocked  booth  in  a  teeming  village,  and,  advancing 
with  a  millionaire  swagger,  sat  down  on  the  bamboo  floor  and  called 
for  food.  The  merchant  and  his  family  were  enjoying  a  plenteous 
repast.  The  wife  grinned  cheerily  upon  us  for  the  honor  we  had  done 
her  among  all  her  neighbors,  and  brought  us  a  bowl  of  rice  and  a 
strange  vegetable  currie.  While  we  ate,  the  unsuspecting  victims 
squatted  around  us,  shrieking  in  our  ears  as  though  they  would 
force  us  to  understand  by  endless  repetitions  and  lusty  bellowing. 
When  we  addressed  them  in  English,  they  cried  "  namelay-voo,"  and 
took  deeper  breath.  When  we  spoke  in  Hindustanee,  they  grinned 
sympathetically  and  again  bellowed  "  namelay-voo."  How  often  I 
26 


402       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

had  heard  those  words  since  our  departure  from  Rangoon !  At  first, 
I  had  fancied  the  speaker  was  attempting  to  converse  in  French.  It 
was  easy  to  imagine  that  he  was  trying  to  say  "  what  is  your  name?  " 
But  he  was  not,  for  when  I  answered  in  the  language  of  Voltaire,  the 
refrain  came  back  louder  than  before :  — "  Namelay-voo  ?  " 

We  did  not  eat  our  fill  at  the  first  shop.  To  have  done  so  would 
have  been  to  leave  the  keeper  a  pauper.  When  our  hunger  had  been 
somewhat  allayed,  we  rose  to  our  feet. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  work  this  phony  game  on  you,  old  girl,"  said  James, 
"  but  I  know  you  could  n't  cash  a  check  — " 

"  Namelay-voo  ? "  cried  the  personage  thus  disrespectfully  ad- 
dressed, and  the  family  smile  broadened  and  spread  to  the  family  ears. 
We  caught  up  the  knapsack  and  walked  rapidly  away;  for  well  we 
knew  the  agonized  screams  that  would  greet  our  perfidy  and  the 
menacing  mob  that  would  gather  at  our  heels.  Four  steps  we  had 
taken,  and  still  no  outcry.  We  hurried  on,  not  daring  to  look  back. 
Suddenly  a  roar  of  laughter  sounded  behind  us.  I  glanced  over  my 
shoulder.  Not  a  man  pursued  us.  The  family  still  squatted  on  the 
bamboo  floor  of  the  booth,  doubled  up  and  shaking  with  mirth. 

We  levied  on  the  shopkeepers  whenever  hunger  assailed  us  there- 
after, though  never  eating  more  than  two  or  three  cents'  worth  at 
any  one  stall.  Never  a  merchant  showed  anger  at  our  rascality.  So 
excellent  a  joke  did  our  ruse  seem  to  the  natives  that  laughter  rang 
out  behind  us  at  every  sortie.  Nay,  many  a  shopkeeper  called  us 
back  and  forced  upon  us  handfuls  of  the  best  fruit  in  his  meager  lit- 
tle stock,  guffawing  the  while  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  and 
calling  his  neighbors  about  him  to  tell  them  the  jest,  that  they  might 
laugh  with  him.  And  they  did.  More  than  once  we  left  an  entire 
village  shaking  its  sides  at  the  trick  which  the  t.vo  witty  sahibs  had 
played  upon  it. 

When  night  came  on  we  appropriated  lodgings  ii  the  same  high- 
handed fashion,  stretching  out  on  the  veranda  of  the  most  pretentious 
shop  in  a  long,  straggling  village.  Unfortunately,  the  wretch  who 
kept  it  was  no  true  Burman.  A  dozen  times  he  cam<^  out  to  growl 
at  us,  and  to  answer  our  questions  with  an  angry  "  namelay-voo." 
Darkness  fell  swiftly.  It  was  the  hour  of  closing.  The  merchant  be- 
gan to  drag  out  boards  from  under  his  shanty  and  to  stand  them  up 
endwise  across  the  open  front  of  the  shop,  fitting  them  into  grooves  at 
top  and  bottom.  When  only  a  narrow  opening  was  left,  he  turned 
upon  us  with  a  snarl  and  motioned  to  us  to  be  off.     We  paid  no  heed, 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  403 

for  so  fierce  an  evening  storm  had  begun  that  the  shop  lamp  Hghted 
up  an  unbroken  sheet  of  water  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda.  The  shop- 
keeper blustered  and  howled  to  make  his  voice  heard  above  the  rumble 
of  the  torrent,  waving  his  arms  wildly  above  his  head.  We  stretched 
our  aching  legs  and  let  him  rage  on.  He  fell  silent  at  last  and  squatted 
disconsolately  in  the  opening.  He  could  have  put  up  the  last  board 
and  left  us  outside,  but  that  would  have  been  to  disobey  the  ancient 
Buddhist  law  of  hospitahty. 

A  half-hour  had  passed  when  he  sprang  up  suddenly  with  a  grunt 
of  satisfaction  and  stepped  into  his  dwelling.  When  he  came  out  he 
carried  a  lantern  and  wore  a  black,  waterproof  sheet  that  hid  all  but 
a  narrow  strip  of  his  face  and  his  bare  feet.  Bellowing  in  our  ears, 
he  began  a  pantomime  that  we  understood  to  be  an  offer  to  lead  us 
to  some  other  shelter. 

"  Let 's  risk  it,"  said  James.  "  This  is  no  downy  couch,  and  he  's 
probably  going  to  take  us  to  a  Buddhist  monastery.  If  he  tries  any 
tricks  we  '11  stick  to  him  and  come  back." 

We  stepped  into  the  deluge  and  followed  the  native  along  the  high- 
way in  the  direction  we  had  come.  The  storm  increased.  It  was  not 
a  mere  matter  of  getting  wet.  There  was  not  a  dry  thread  on  us 
when  we  had  taken  four  steps.  But  the  torrent,  falling  on  our  bowed 
backs,  weighed  us  down  like  a  mighty  burden,  a  sensation  one  may  ex- 
|)erience  under  an  especially  strong  shower  bath. 

Mile  after  mile  the  native  trotted  on ;  it  seemed  at  least  ten,  certainly 
it  was  three.  The  mud,  oozing  into  our  dilapidated  shoes  during  the 
(lay,  had  blistered  our  feet  to  the  ankles ;  our  legs  creaked  with  every 
step.  The  Australian  fell  behind.  I  stumbled  over  a  knoll  and 
^prawled  into  a  river  of  mud  that  spattered  even  into  my  eyes.  A 
1)ellow  brought  the  Burman  to  a  halt.  I  splashed  forward  and  grasped 
him  by  a  wrist. 

"  Hold  him !  "  howled  James  from  the  rear.  "  The  bloody  ass  will 
take  us  clear  back  to  Pegu.  There 's  a  house  down  there.  Let 's 
try  it." 

We  skated  down  the  slippery  slope,  dragging  the  shopkeeper  after 
us,  and  stumbled  across  the  veranda  into  a  low,  rambling  hovel  of  a 
single  room.  At  one  end  squatted  a  half-dozen  low-caste  men  and  as 
many  slatternly,  half-naked  females.  In  a  corner  was  spread  an  array 
of  food  stuffs;  in  another,  several  dirty,  brown  brats  were  curled  up 
on  a  heap  of  rush  mats  and  foul  rags.  James  sprang  through  the 
squatting  group  and  fell  upon  the  wares. 


404      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Only  grains  and  vegetables,"  he  wailed.  "  Not  a  damn  thing  a 
civilized  man's  dog  could  eat  unless  it  was  cooked.  It 's  no  supper 
for  us,  all  right.     What  say  we  turn  in  ?  " 

He  dived  towards  the  other  corner  and  tumbled  the  sleeping  chil- 
dren together.  The  natives  stared  stupidly,  offering  no  sign  of  pro- 
test at  this  maltreatment  of  their  offspring.  The  Australian  threw 
himself  down  beside  the  slumberers. 

"  Holy  dingoes ! "  he  gasped,  bounding  again  to  his  feet,  "  What  a 
smell!" 

We  had  indeed  fallen  upon  squalor  unusual  in  the  land  of  Burma. 

Our  guide,  waiving  the  rights  of  higher  caste,  squatted  with  the 
others.  Then  he  began  to  chatter,  and,  that  accomplishment  being 
universal  among  his  countrymen,  he  was  soon  joined  by  all  the  group ; 
the  old  men  first,  in  rasping  undertones,  then  the  younger  males,  in 
deeper  voice,  and  last,  the  females,  in  cracked  treble. 

We  sat  down  dejectedly  on  two  Standard  Oil  cans.  For  an  hour 
the  natives  jabbered  on,  gaping  at  us,  chewing  their  betel-nut  cuds 
like  ruminating  animals.  Green-eyed  lizards  in  wall  and  ceiling  set 
up  their  nerve-racking  "  she-kak !  she-kak !  "  The  mud  dried  in  thick 
layers  on  our  faces. 

Suddenly  James  bounded  into  the  midst  of  the  group  and  grasped 
the  shopkeeper  by  the  folds  of  his  loose  gown. 

"  We  want  something  to  eat !  "  he  bellowed.  "  If  there  's  any  chow 
in  this  shack  show  it  up.  If  there  isn't,  cut  out  this  tongue  rattle, 
you  missing  link,  and  let  us  sleep ! "  and  he  shook  the  passive  Burman 
so  savagely  that  the  cigarette  hanging  from  his  nether  lip  flew  among 
the  sleeping  children. 

The  shopkeeper,  showing  neither  surprise  nor  anger,  regained  his 
equilibrium,  picked  up  his  lantern,  and  marched  with  dignified  tread 
out  into  the  night.  Apparently  he  had  abandoned  us  in  spite  of  the 
law  of  hospitality. 

But  he  was  a  true  disciple  of  Gautama,  for  he  sauntered  in,  a  few 
moments  later,  in  company  with  five  men  in  high-caste  costumes. 

"  Any  of  you  chaps  speak  English  ?  "  I  cried. 

The  newcomers  gave  no  sign  of  having  understood.  One,  more 
showily  dressed  than  his  companions,  sat  down  on  a  heap  of  rattan. 
The  others  grouped  themselves  about  him,  and  a  new  conference  began. 
The  rain  ceased.  The  lizards  shrieked  sardonically.  James  fell  into 
a  doze,  humped  together  on  his  oil  can. 

Suddenly  I  caught,  above  the  chatter,  the  word  "  babu." 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  405 

"  Look  here,"  I  interrupted,  "  If  there  's  a  babu  here  he  speaks  Eng- 
lish.    Who  is  he?" 

The  only  reply  was  a  sudden  silence  that  did  not  last  long. 

"  Babu,"  cried  the  shopkeeper,  some  moments  later.  This  time 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  addressed  the  silent  Beau  Brum- 
mel  on  the  rattan  heap. 

"  You  speak  English !  "  I  charged,  pointing  an  accusing  finger  at 
him.     "  Tell  them  we  want  something  to  eat." 

The  fellow  stared  stolidly.  If  the  title  belonged  to  him  he  was 
anxious  to  conceal  his  accomplishments. 

"  It 's  some  damn  sneak,"  burst  out  James,  "  come  here  to  eaves- 
drop." 

Four  days  in  the  jungle  had  weakened  the  Australian's  command 
over  his  temper.  Or  was  his  speech  a  ruse?  If  so,  it  succeeded  in 
its  object.  A  flush  mounted  to  the  swarthy  cheek  of  the  native;  he 
opened  and  closed  his  mouth  several  times  as  if  he  had  received 
a  heavy  blow  in  the  ribs,  and  spoke,  slowly  and  distinctly:  — 

"  I  am  not  damn  snake.     I  have  been  listening." 

"  Of  course !  "  bellowed  James,  "  I  repeat,  you  are  a  sneak." 

"Don't!"  shuddered  the  babu,  ''Don't  name  me  damn  snake.  If 
they  know  you  talk  me  so  I  fall  in  my  caste." 

"  Well,  why  did  n't  you  answer  when  I  spoke  to  you  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  1  was  listening  to  find  out  what  you  were  wishing,"  stammered 
the  Burman. 

"  You  half-baked  Hindu ! "  shouted  James.  "  You  heard  us  say  a 
dozen  times  we  wanted  something  to  eat." 

"  But,"  pleaded  the  babu,  "  this  is  a  very  jungly  place  and  we  have 
not  proper  food  for  Europeans." 

"  Proper  be  blowed !  "  shrieked  the  Australian.  "  Who  's  talking 
about  European  food  ?  If  there  's  anything  to  eat  around  here  trot 
it  out.  If  we  have  n't  got  money  we  can  pay  for  it.  Here  's  a  good 
suit  of  clothes  — "  he  caught  up  the  knapsack  and  tumbled  his  "  swag  " 
out  on  the  floor. 

"  There  's  only  native  food,"  objected  the  Burman.  "  White  men 
cannot  — " 

"  What  you  can  eat,  so  can  we,"  I  cried.  "  Take  the  suit  and  bring 
us  something." 

"  Oh !     We  cannot  take  payment,"  protested  the  babu. 

*'  Jumping  Hottentots !  "  screamed  James.  "  Take  pay  or  don't,  but 
stop  your  yapping  and  tell  them  we  want  something  to  eat." 


4o6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

'*  I  shall  have  prepared  some  food  which  Europeans  can  eat,"  mur- 
mured the  native  in  an  oily  voice.  He  harangued  the  group  long  and 
deliberately.  An  undressed  female  rose,  hobbled  to  a  corner  of  the 
room,  lighted  a  fire  of  fagots,  and  squatted  beside  it.  Though  it  was 
certainly  midnight,  we  gave  up  all  hope  of  expediting  matters,  and 
waited  with  set  teeth.  For  a  half-hour  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Then 
the  female  rose  and  strolled  towards  us,  holding  out  —  four  slices  of 
toast ! 

"  If  I  'd  known  there  was  bread  in  this  shack,"  cried  James,  as  we 
snatched  the  slices,  "  there  'd  have  been  damn  little  toasting." 

"  I  have  worked  for  Europeans,"  said  the  babu  proudly,  yet  with  a 
touch  of  sadness  in  his  voice,  "  and  I  know  they  cannot  eat  the  native 
bread,  so  I  have  it  prepared  as  sahibs  eat  it." 

"  We  Ve  been  eating  native  bread  for  months,"  mumbled  James, 
"days  anyway.     You're  a  bit  crazy,  I  think.     Got  any  rice?" 

"  There  is  rice  and  fish,"  said  the  Burman,  "  but  can  you  eat  that 
too?" 

"  Just  watch  us,"  said  James. 

The  female  brought  a  native  supper,  and  we  fell  to. 

"  How  wonderful !  "  murmured  the  babu,  "  And  you  are  sahibs !  " 

When  we  acknowledged  ourselves  satisfied,  two  blankets  were  spread 
for  us  on  the  floor,  the  chattering  visitors  filed  out  into  the  night,  and 
we  stretched  out  side  by  side  to  listen  a  few  hours  to  the  croaking  of 
irrepressible  lizards. 

The  following  noonday  found  us  miles  distant.  It  was  our  second 
day  without  a  copper;  yet  the  natives  received  us  as  kindly  as_if  we 
had  been  men  of  means.  The  proximity  of  Moulmein,  where  sahib 
muscular  effort  might  be  turned  to  account,  filled  us  with  new  hope 
and  we  splashed  doggedly  on. 

Villages  there  were  without  number.  Their  tapering  pagodas  domi- 
nated the  landscape.  On  the  east  stretched  the  rugged  mountain 
chain,  so  near  now  that  we  could  make  out  plainly  the  little  shrines 
far  up  on  the  summit  of  each  conspicuous  peak.  Tropical  showers 
burst  upon  us  at  frequent  intervals,  wild  deluges  of  water  from  which 
we  occasionally  found  shelter  under  long-legged  hovels.  Even  when 
we  scrambled  up  the  bamboo  ladders  into  the  dwellings,  the  squatting 
family  showed  no  resentment  at  the  intrusion ;  often  they  gave  us 
fruit,  once  they  forced  upon  us  two  native  cigars.  It  was  these  that 
made  James  forever  after  a  stout  champion  of  the  Burmese ;  for  two 
days  had  passed  since  we  had  shared  our  last  smoke. 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  407 

Queer  things  are  these  Burmese  cigars !  They  call  them  "  saybul- 
lies,"  and  they  smoke  them  in  installments ;  for  no  man  lives  with  the 
endurance  necessary  to  consume  a  saybully  at  one  sitting.  They  are  a 
foot  long,  as  thick  as  the  thumb  of  a  wind-jammer's  bo's'n,  rather 
cigarettes  than  cigars ;  for  they  are  wrapped  in  a  thick,  leathery  paper 
that  almost  defies  destruction,  even  by  fire.  In  the  country  districts 
they  serve  as  almanacs.  The  peasant  buys  his  cigar  on  market  day, 
puffs  fiercely  at  it  on  the  journey  home,  stows  it  away  about  his  per- 
son when  he  is  satisfied,  and  pulls  it  out  from  time  to  time  to  smoke 
again.  As  a  result,  one  can  easily  determine  the  day  of  the  week  by 
noting  the  length  of  the  saybullies  one  encounters  along  the  route. 

To  determine  the  ingredients  that  make  up  this  Burmese  concoc- 
tion is  not  so  simple  a  matter.  Now  and  then,  in  the  smoking,  one 
comes  across  pebbles  and  fagots  and  a  variety  of  foreign  substances 
which  even  a  manufacturer  of  "  two-fers  "  would  hesitate  to  use. 
But  the  comparison  is  unjust,  for  the  saybully  does  contain  tobacco, 
little  wads  of  it,  tucked  away  among  the  rubbish. 

Men,  women,  and  children  indulge  in  this  form  of  the  soothing 
weed.  As  in  Ceylon,  the  females,  and  often  the  males,  wear  heavy 
leaden  washers  in  their  ears  until  the  aperture  is  stretched  to  the  size 
of  a  rat  hole.  It  is  a  wise  custom.  For,  having  no  pockets,  where 
could  the  Burmese  matron  find  place  for  her  half-smoked  saybully 
were  she  denied  the  privilege  of  thrusting  it  through  the  lobe  of  her 
ear? 

Dusk  was  falling  when  we  overtook  a  fellow  pedestrian ;  a  Eurasian 
youth  provided  with  an  umbrella  and  attended  by  a  native  servant  boy. 
When  he  had  gasped  his  astonishment  at  meeting  two  bedraggled 
sahibs  in  this  strange  corner  of  the  world  and  volunteered  a  detailed 
autobiography,  I  found  time  to  put  a  question  over  which  I  had  been 
pondering  for  some  days. 

"  As  your  mother  is  Burmese,"  I  began,  while  we  splashed  on  into 
the  night,  '*  you  speak  that  language,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Oh !  yes,"  answered  the  Eurasian,  "  even  better  than  English." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  us  about  this  phrase  we  have  heard  so  much. 
It 's  '  namelay-voo.'  Sounds  like  bum  French,  but  I  suppose  it 's 
Burmese  ?  " 

"  Oh !  yes,  that  is  Burmese." 

"  What  the  deuce  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  youth. 

"  Eh !     But  it 's  certainly  a  common  expression.     Every  Burman 


4o8      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

we  speak  to  shouts  *  namelay-voo/     What  are  they  trying  to  say?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  repeated  the  half-breed. 

"  Mighty  funny,  if  you  speak  Burmese,  that  you  don't  understand 
that!" 

"  But  I  do  understand  it ! "  protested  the  youth. 

''Well,  what  is  it  then?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  understand." 

"  Say,  what  are  you  giving  us  ?  "  cried  James.  "  Don't  you  ever  say 
*  namelay-voo'  ? " 

"  Certainly !     Very  often,  every  day,  every  hour !  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  when  you  say  it  ?  " 

**  I  don't  understand.     I  don't  know." 

"  Look  here !  "  bellowed  the  Australian,  "  Don't  you  go  springing 
any  stale  jokes  on  us.     We  're  not  in  a  mood  for  'em." 

"  Gentlemen,"  gasped  the  half-breed,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  "  I  do 
not  joke  and  I  am  not  joking.  *  Namelay-voo '  is  a  Burmese  word 
which  has  for  meaning  *  I  don't  know '  or  '  I  don't  understand ! ' " 

It  was  black  night  when  we  stumbled  down  through  the  village  of 
Martaban  to  the  brink  of  the  river  of  the  same  name,  a  swollen  stream 
fully  two  miles  wide  where  our  day's  journey  must  have  ended,  had 
we  not  fallen  in  with  the  Eurasian.  His  home  was  in  Moulmein,  and, 
summoning  a  sampan,  he  invited  us  to  embark  with  him.  The  native 
boat  was  either  light  of  material  or  water-logged,  and  the  waves  that 
broke  over  the  craft  threatened  more  than  once  to  swamp  us.  Croco- 
diles, whispered  our  companion,  swarmed  at  this  point.  Now  and 
then  an  ominous  grunt  sounded  close  at  hand,  and  the  boatman  peered 
anxiously  about  him  as  he  strained  wildly  at  his  single  oar  against  the 
current  that  would  have  carried  us  out  to  sea.  Panting  with  his  ex- 
ertions, he  fetched  the  opposite  shore,  beaching  the  craft  on  a  slimy 
slope ;  and  we  splashed  through  a  sea  of  mud  to  a  roughly-paved  street 
flanking  the  river. 

"  You  see  Moulmein  is  a  city,"  said  the  Eurasian,  proudly,  pointing 
along  the  row  of  lighted  shops,  with  fronts  all  doorway,  like  those  of 
Damascus.  "  We  have  even  restaurants  and  cabs.  Will  you  not  take 
supper?" 

We  would,  and  he  led  the  way  to  a  Mohammedan  eating-house  in 
which  we  were  served  several  savory  messes  by  an  unkempt  Islamite, 
who  wiped  his  hands,  after  tossing  charcoal  on  his  fire  or  scooping  up  a 
plate  of  food,  on  his  fez,  and  chewed  betel-nut  as  he  worked,  spitting 
perilously  near  to  the  open  pots.     The  meal  over,  the  Eurasian  called 


THE  LAND  OF  PAGODAS  409 

a  "  cab."  It  was  a  mere  box  on  wheels,  about  four  feet  each  way, 
and  had  no  seats.  When  we  had  packed  ourselves  inside,  the  driver 
imprisoned  us  by  slamming  the  air-tight  door,  and  we  jolted  away. 

Fearful  of  calling  paternal  attention  to  his  extravagance,  the  youth 
dismissed  the  hansom  at  the  edge  of  the  quarter  in  which  he  lived, 
and  we  continued  on  foot  to  his  bungalow.  His  father  was  an  ema- 
ciated Englishman  of  the  rougher,  half-educated  type,  employed  in  the 
Moulmein  custom  service.  He  greeted  us  somewhat  coldly.  When 
we  had  been  duly  inspected  by  his  Burmese  wife  and  their  eighteen 
children,  we  threw  ourselves  down  on  the  floor  of  the  open  veranda 
and,  drenched  and  mud-caked  as  we  were,  sank  into  corpse-like 
slumber. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON   FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA 

'  "11^   "TOW  lads,"  said  our  host,  as  we  were  finishing  a  late  breakfast 

^^  the  next  morning,  "  I  '11  'ave  to  ask  you  to  move  on.  If  I 
JL  ^  was  fixed  right  you  'd  be  welcome  to  'ang  out  'ere  as  long 
as  you  're  in  town,  but  I  don't  draw  no  viceroy's  salary  an'  I  've 
got  a  fair  size  family  to  support.  Up  on  the  'ill  there,  lives  an 
American  Christer.  Go  up  an'  give  'im  your  yarn  an'  touch  'im  fer  a 
few  dibs." 

We  did  not,  of  course,  take  the  advice  of  the  Englishman.  James 
and  I  were  agreed  that  it  would  not  be  consistent  with  our  dignity  to 
turn  to  so  base  a  use  as  the  purchase  of  currie  and  rice  the  funds  needed 
for  the  distribution  of  Bibles  and  tracts  among  the  aborigines.  We 
did  call  on  the  good  padre,  but  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  crave  per- 
mission to  inspect  his  cast-off  foot  wear.  The  tramp  from  Pegu  had 
wrought  disaster  to  our  own.  My  companion  wore  on  his  right  foot 
the  upper  portion  of  a  shoe,  the  sole  of  which  he  had  left  somewhere 
in  the  Burmese  jungle;  on  the  left,  the  sole  of  its  mate,  to  which  there 
still  adhered  enough  of  the  upper  to  keep  it  in  place.  He  was  better 
shod  than  I. 

But  missionaries  domiciled  in  the  far  corners  of  the  brown  man's 
land  are  not  wont  to  be  satisfied  with  a  casual  morning  call  from 
those  of  their  own  race.  The  *'  Christer  "  espied  us  as  we  started  up 
the  sloping  pathway  through  his  private  park,  and  gave  us  American 
welcome  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Our  coming,  he  averred,  was  the 
red-letter  event  of  that  season.  Before  we  had  time  even  to  broach 
the  object  of  our  visit,  we  found  ourselves  stammering  denials  to  the 
assertion  he  was  shouting  to  his  wife  within,  that  we  were  to  stay  at 
least  a  fortnight. 

Our  new  host  was  a  native  of  Indiana,  a  missionary  among  the 
Talaings,  as  the  inhabitants  of  this  region  are  known.  His  dwelling, 
the  Talaing  Mission,  was  a  palatial  bungalow  set  in  a  wooded  estate 
on  the  outer  rim  of  the  city.  Its  windows  commanded  a  far-reaching 
view  over  a  gorgeous  tropical  landscape.     Within,  it  was  not  merely 

410 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        411 

spacious,  airy,  and  lighted  with  soft  tints  of  filtered  sunshine  —  bless- 
ings easily  attained  in  British-Burma,  it  was  hung  with  rich  tap- 
estries, carpeted  with  downy  rugs,  decorated  with  Oriental  works  of 
art.  The  room  to  which  we  were  assigned  was  all  but  sumptuously 
furnished ;  and  it  was  by  no  means  the  "  bridal  chamber."  At  table 
we  were  served  formal  dinners  of  many  courses ;  a  white-liveried  chow- 
kee  dar  slipped  in  and  out  of  the  room,  salaaming  reverentially  each 
time  he  offered  a  new  dish;  a  punkah-wallah  on  the  back  veranda 
toiled  ceaselessly ;  a  gardener  clipped  away  at  the  shrubbery  in  the  mis- 
sion grounds ;  a  native  aya  followed  the  two  tiny  memsahibs  who  drove 
about  the  house  a  team  of  lizards,  harnessed  in  tandem  with  the  reins 
tied  to  their  hind  legs.  In  short,  the  reverend  gentleman  lived  in  a 
style  rarely  dreamed  of  by  men  of  the  cloth  at  home,  or  by  the  sym- 
pathetic spinsters  to  whose  charity  the  adjacent  heathen  owed  their 
threatened  evangelization. 

For  all  his  profession,  however,  the  man  from  Indiana  was  one 
whose  acquaintanceship  was  well  worth  the  making.  To  us  especially, 
for  when  he  was  once  convinced  that  our  plea  for  employment  was 
genuine,  he  quickly  found  something  to  put  us  at.  One  would  have 
fancied  that  a  "  handy  man  "  had  never  before  entered  the  mission 
grounds.  There  was  barely  a  trade  of  which  we  knew  the  rudiments 
that  we  did  not  take  a  turn  at  during  our  stay.  Having  served  ap- 
prenticeship in  earlier  days  as  carpenter,  blacksmith,  shoemaker,  and 
**  carriage  trimmer,"  I  repaired  the  floor  and  several  doors  and  win- 
dows, constructed  two  kitchen  benches,  forged  wardrobe  hooks,  half- 
soled  the  family  shoes,  and  upholstered  two  chairs  used  on  "  state  oc- 
casions." James,  meanwhile,  re-covered  the  padre's  pack-saddle, 
overhauled  and  oiled  his  fire-arms,  put  new  roosts  in  his  henhouse, 
and  set  his  lumber  room  in  order.  It  was  not  that  native  workmen 
were  scarce;  a  small  army  of  servants  flitted  about  the  bungalow, 
leering  at  our  loss  of  caste.  But  saddening  experience  had  taught 
the  missionary  that  Hindu  or  Burmese  workmen  not  only  made  a 
botch  of  any  task  outside  their  narrow  fields,  but  ruined  with  sur- 
prising rapidity  the  tools  of  which  he  had  brought  a  well-stocked 
chest  from  his  native  land. 

Our  first  day's  labor  was  enlivened  with  tales  of  the  horrors  that 
would  befall  us  if  we  persisted  in  continuing  our  journey ;  the  second, 
with  pleas  for  a  longer  sojourn;  the  third,  with  preparations  for  our 
departure.  As  to  the  route,  we  could  learn  no  more  than  the  names 
of  three   villages   through   which   the   "  wild   men "   of   the   interior 


412      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

passed  on  their  way  to  Siam.  To  what  section  of  Siam  their  trail 
might  bring  us  no  man  knew. 

A  few  hours  over  washtub  and  needle  made  our  rags  presentable, 
and  we  still  had  two  extra  cotton  suits.  That  these  and  our  other 
possessions  might  be  protected  from  the  tropical  deluges,  we  bought 
two  squares  of  oilcloth  in  which  to  roll  our  "  swag."  My  bundle 
contained  one  of  the  two  pairs  of  half-worn  shoes  that  I  had  come 
across  in  the  lumber-room.  Unfortunately,  there  was  a  marked  pedal 
disparity  between  the  Australian  and  the  missionary,  and  my  com- 
panion might  have  departed  as  poorly  shod  as  he  had  arrived,  had  not 
the  good  sky  pilot  insisted  on  fitting  him  out  in  the  bazaars.  There, 
the  stoutest  shoes  in  stock  proved  to  be  a  pair  of  football  buskins, 
imported  for  some  Moulmein  exponent  of  Rugby.  These  the  pur- 
chaser chose,  in  the  face  of  the  protest  of  the  prospective  wearer,  ar- 
guing that  the  cleats  made  them  just  the  thing  for  climbing  steep 
mountain  paths.  In  my  pack,  too,  were  our  earnings  at  the  mission, 
some  four  dollars  in  silver  and  copper;  James  having  pleaded  that  he 
was  too  careless  to  be  intrusted  with  such  a  fortune.  Nor  should  the 
parting  gifts  of  our  hosts  be  forgotten, —  a  little  pocket  compass  from 
the  padre,  and  a  bottle  of  "  Superior  Curry  Dressing  "  from  his  solici- 
tous spouse. 

We  left  the  Talaing  Mission,  then,  on  the  morning  of  May  twenty- 
third,  and,  boarding  a  tiny  steamer  plying  on  the  Gyang  river,  dis- 
embarked as  the  sun  was  touching  the  western  tree-tops,  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Choung  Doa.  It  comprised  two  rows  of  spindle-shanked 
hutches  facing  a  narrow  clearing  ankle-deep  in  mud.  In  one  of  the 
booths,  boiled  rice,  tea,  and  a  few  stale  biscuits  from  far-off  England 
were  for  sale.  The  population,  irrespective  of  age,  sex,  or  dishabille, 
formed  a  gaping  circle  around  us  and  flocked  behind  us  as  we  set  out, 
like  country  boys  in  the  wake  of  the  annual  circus  parade. 

A  jungle  trail  that  was  almost  a  highway  led  eastward  through 
densest  virgin  forest.  We  set  a  sharp  pace,  for  the  hour  was  late 
and  the  next  hamlet  full  fifteen  miles  distant.  Not  a  hut  nor  a  human 
being  did  we  pass  on  the  journey ;  only  the  trail,  winding  over  thick- 
clothed  foothills,  gave  evidence  that  man  had  been  here  before  us. 

Black  night  had  fallen  when  we  reached  Kawkeriek.  As  the  capi- 
tal of  the  most  eastern  district  of  the  Indian  Empire,  it  posed  as  a 
city  of  importance ;  yet  it  was  only  a  larger  collection  of  those  same 
one-story,  bamboo  huts,  ranged  in  unsteady  rows  like  the  soldiers  of 
an  inebriated  army,  in  the  square  clearing  which  its  inhabitants  had 


' 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       413 

won  by  force  of  arms  from  the  militant  jungle.  A  sub-commissioner 
dwelt  there.  That  much  information  had  reached  Moulmein.  Per- 
haps he  spoke  a  smattering  of  Engliih.  We  fell  to  shouting  an  in- 
quiry for  his  bungalow  as  we  wandered  in  and  out  among  the  huts. 
Here  and  there,  where  a  light  cast  a  flickering  gleam  into  the  night, 
we  startled  the  peace  of  a  quiet  family  by  intruding  upon  them  —  and 
seldom  found  them  in  a  garb  to  receive  callers.  The  few  belated 
stragglers  whom  we  came  upon  in  the  darkness  listened  with  trembling 
limbs  to  our  query,  grunted  unintelligibly,  and  sped  noiselessly  away. 

It  was  surely  nine  and  time  all  well-behaved  residents  of  the  capital 
should  have  been  abed,  when  we  captured  a  night-hawk  on  his  way 
home  after  a  little  supper  with  the  boys,  or  a  round  of  the  dance-halls. 
He  was  of  bolder  stuff,  naturally,  and  better  informed  on  who  's  who 
in  Kawkeriek  than  his  hen-pecked  neighbors,  and  consented  like  a  man 
ready  for  any  adventure  to  give  us  guidance. 

Beyond  the  last  row  of  dwellings,  he  plunged  into  a  sub-sylvan 
pathway,  and,  mounting  a  gentle  slope,  paused  before  a  forest-girdled 
bungalow.  We  turned  to  thank  him,  but  he  had  slipped  silently  away, 
anxious,  no  doubt,  to  reach  his  apartment  before  the  elevator  stopped 
running. 

The  commissioner  was  reading  in  his  study.  He  was  a  Burman 
from  "  over  Mandalay  way,"  as  much  a  foreigner  in  Kawkeriek  as  we, 
and  so  much  a  sahib  in  his  habits  that  he  had  not  yet  dined.  For  that 
we  were  grateful.  To  have  missed  the  formal  repast  to  which  he  in- 
vited us  would  have  been  a  misfortune  indeed. 

So  rarely  does  England  appoint  any  but  a  white  man  to  rule  over 
a  district,  that  this  native,  who  had  risen  so  high  in  her  esteem,  awak- 
ened our  keenest  curiosity.  In  appearance  he  was  like  any  other  Bur- 
man  of  the  prosperous  class.  His  garb  was  the  usual  flowing  robe, 
though  his  legs  were  dressed  and  his  feet  shod.  His  long,  black  hair, 
a  bit  wavy  and  of  a  thickness  the  other  sex  might  have  envied,  was 
caught  up  at  the  back  of  his  head  in  a  "  Psyche  knot."  Like  the 
police  captain  of  Bankipore,  however,  he  was  in  all  but  nationality 
and  dress  a  European.  Without  the  trace  of  a  foreign  accent,  he 
couched  even  his  casual  remarks  in  an  English  that  sounded  like  a 
reading  from  a  master  of  style.  His  energy,  his  accomplishments,  his 
very  point  of  view  were  those  of  the  Occident.  Had  we  entered  the 
bungalow  blindfolded,  we  should  never  have  suspected  that  his  skin 
was  brown.  So  little  of  the  native  was  there  left  in  his  make-up  that, 
though  middle-aged,  he  was  still  a  bachelor. 
i 


414      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  I  have  been  too  busy  in  my  short  lifc/^  he  confided,  "  to  give  at- 
tention to  such  matters." 

There  was  a  dak  bungalow  in  Kawkeriek.  The  commissioner's 
servant  escorted  us  thither,  prepared  our  bath,  and  arranged  the  sleep- 
ing-quarters for  the  reception  of  such  distinguished  guests.  In  the 
morning  we  took  breakfast  with  the  governor.  No  more  important 
problem,  apparently,  than  the  planning  of  our  itinerary  had  occupied 
his  attention  in  many  a  day.  He  had  summoned  his  entire  council, 
si:xf  men  of  standing  in  the  community,  who  approached  the  business 
in  hand  with  the  solemnity  of  delegates  to  a  Hague  conference. 

The  morning  was  half  spent  before  the  result  of  their  deliberations 
was  laid  before  us.  It  was  tabulated  under  three  heads.  First:  the 
country  east  of  the  capital  was  a  trackless  jungle  overrun  with  savage 
dacoits,  poisonous  reptiles,  and  man-eating  tigers,  into  which  even 
the  people  of  Kawkeriek  dared  not  venture.  Secondly :  if  we  persisted 
in  our  suicidal  project,  would  we  not  spend  a  few  days  of  our  closing 
existence  with  the  commissioner,  who  was  pining  away  for  lack  of 
congenial  companions.  Thirdly:  if  we  denied  him  even  this  favor, 
there  was  outside  his  door  a  "  wild  man,"  chief  of  a  jungle  village, 
whose  route  coincided  with  our  own  for  one  day's  journey. 

We  suggested  an  immediate  departure.  A  servant  stepped  out  on 
the  veranda  and  summoned  the  boh  into  the  council  chamber.  He  was 
a  "  wild  man  "  indeed.  In  physique,  he  was  thin  and  angular,  a  tall 
man  for  his  race,  though  small  when  judged  by  our  standard.  His 
skin  was  a  leathery  brown,  his  hair  short  and  bristling,  his  eyes  small 
and  shifty,  with  a  suggestion  of  the  leopard  in  them.  The  chewing 
of  betel-nut  had  left  his  teeth  jet-black,  and  the  prominence  of  his 
cheek  bones  under  a  sloping  forehead  made  his  face  ugly  to  look  upon. 
All  in  all,  he  was  a  creature  who  would  have  seemed  in  his  proper 
element  chattering  in  the  tree-tops  of  the  jungle. 

His  dress,  nevertheless,  was  brilliant.  Around  his  brow  was 
wound  a  strip  of  pink  silk;  an  embroidered  jacket,  innocent  of  buttons, 
left  his  chest  bare  to  the  waist-line ;  his  loins  and  thighs  were  clothed 
in  many  yards  of  bright  red  stuff  arranged  in  the  fashion  of  bloomers. 
Below  the  knees  he  wore  nothing.  At  his  waist  was  fastened  a  betel- 
nut  pouch.  He  carried  a  leather  sack  of  the  shape  of  a  saddlebag, 
and  —  having  fallen  under  the  civiHzing  influence  of  Kawkeriek  —  an 
umbrella. 

His  dialect  being  a  foreign  language  to  the  commissioner,  the  im- 
portance of  his  mission  was  impressed  upon  the  boh  through  an  inter- 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       415 

preter.  He  replied  only,^  monosyllables,  salaaming,  each  time  he 
grunted,  so  low  that  his  head  all  but  touched  his  knees.  From  time 
to  time  he  sat  down  on  his  heels  as  a  signal  mark  of  respect.  When 
he  retired,  he  backed  towards  the  door,  kowtowing  with  every  step, 
and  forgetting,  in  his  awe,  his  leather  sack,  until  he  was  called  back 
by  the  commissioner's  major  domo. 

The  brilliant  garb  which  the  village  chieftan  had  donned  for  his 
audience  with  the  governor  was  not,  of  course,  his  traveling  costume. 
On  the  outskirts  of  the  capital  he  signed  to  us  to  halt  and  stepped 
inside  a  hut.  But  for  his  ape's  countenance  we  should  not  have  recog- 
nized him  when  he  reappeared.  His  regal  garments  had  been  packed 
away  in  his  haversack,  the  broad  strap  of  which  was  his  only  cover- 
ing, save  a  strip  of  dirty,  white  cotton  about  his  loins. 

He  plunged  at  once  into  the  jungle,  moving  with  little,  mincing  steps 
Deside  which  our  strides  seemed  awkward.  The  path  was  so  narrow 
that  the  outstretching  branches  whipped  us  in  the  faces.  It  showed 
:ew  signs  of  travel  and  was  overgrown  with  virile  creepers  that  en- 
tangled our  feet.  None  but  a  jungle-bred  human  could  have  fol- 
lowed the  erratic,  oft-obliterated  route  through  that  labyrinth  of  veg- 
etation. Flocks  of  birds  of  brilliant  plumage  flew  away  before  us,  ut- 
tering strident  screams ;  now  and  then  a  crashing  of  underbrush  marked 
he  flight  of  some  unknown  animal.  The  overbearing  sunshine,  fall- 
ng  sheer  upon  us,  seemed  to  double  the  weight  of  the  "  swag "  on 
3ur  shoulders;  and  the  bundles  themselves  were  not  light. 

Our  guide  was  the  most  taciturn  of  Orientals.  Not  once  during  the 
day,  to  our  knowledge,  did  a  sound  escape  his  lips.  Where  the  path 
widened  a  bit,  he  raised  his  umbrella  and  cantered  steadily  forward, 
iven  swollen  streams  were  no  obstacle  to  him.  Had  he  been  alone 
t  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  noticed  them  at  all.  With 
lever  a  pause  he  splashed  through  the  first  and  loped  unconcernedly 
)n  along  the  branch-choked  path.  We  hallooed  to  him  as  we  sat  down 
o  pull  off  our  shoes ;  and  he  halted  a  moment,  but  set  off  again  before 
ive  had  waded  ashore.  When  we  shouted  once  more  he  turned  to 
tare  open-mouthed  until  we  were  re-shod.  Why  these  strange  crea- 
ures  should  wear  garments  on  their  feet  under  any  circumstances 
vas  an  enigma  to  him ;  that  we  should  stop  to  put  on  our  shoes  again 
vhen  we  must  know  there  were  other  streams  to  wade  seemed  the 
leight  of  asininity.  When  we  had  overtaken  him  he  hinted  in  awkward 
)antomime  that  we  should  do  better  to  toss  aside  the  foolish  leather 
jontrivances  that  hindered  our  progress.     He  could  not  realize  that  a 


4i6      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

mile  over  sharp  stones  and  jagged  roots  \l!0ld  have  left  us  crippled. 

As  we  neared  the  mountains  the  streams  increased  in  number  and 
swiftness.  In  the  beginning  we  took  it  upon  ourselves,  as  a  duty  to 
beachcombers  who  might  some  day  appeal  to  us  for  statistical  in- 
formation, to  count  them.  When  we  had  forded  thirty-six  before  the 
sun  began  its  decline,  we  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  By  that 
time,  too,  we  had  grown  weary  of  halting  every  hundred  yards  to  pull 
off  our  shoes  and  bellow  after  the  boh,  who  must  be  reminded  at  every 
rivulet  of  our  peculiar  custom.  James  essayed  to  cross  one  on  a 
few  stepping-stones,  lost  his  balance,  and  sprawled  headlong  into  it. 
I  was  more  fortunate,  but  reached  the  further  bank  by  no  means  dry 
shod.  Thereafter  we  waded  through  the  streams,  which  for  the  most 
part  were  something  over  knee-deep,  and  marched  on  with  the  water 
gushing  from  our  shoe-tops.  It  mattered  little  in  the  end,  for  a  pent- 
up  deluge  burst  upon  us. 

He  who  has  never  bowed  his  back  to  a  tropical  shower  at  the  height 
of  the  rainy  season  cannot  know  their  violence ;  and  nowhere  do  they 
rage  with  more  fury  than  in  the  mountains  of  the  Malay  Peninsula. 
With  a  roar  like  the  explosion  of  a  powder-mill  an  infuriated  clap  of 
thunder  broke  above  us.  Then  another  and  another,  in  quick,  spas- 
modic blasts.  ,It  was  no  such  tamed  and  domesticated  thunder  as 
that  of  the  north.  Flaming  flashes  of  lightning  followed  each  other 
in  quick  succession,  half  blinding  us  with  their  sudden  glare.  We 
looked  instinctively  to  see  the  riotous  vegetation  burst  into  flame.  In 
the  falling  masses  of  water  —  to  call  it  rain  seems  absurd  —  we 
plunged  on ;  the  densest  thicket  could  not  have  offered  the  least  shelter. 
The  boh  had  raised  his  umbrella.  It  broke  the  force  of  the  down- 
pour, but  could  not  save  him  a  drenching.  What  cared  he,  dressed 
only  in  a  loin-cloth  ?  The  water  ran  in  rivulets  down  his  naked  shoul- 
ders and  along  his  prominent  ribs,  yet  on  his  macilent  face  hovered  the 
beginning  of  a  haggard  smile.  Between  the  crashes  of  thunder  the 
devil's-tattoo  of  the  storm  drowned  out  all  other  sounds.  Only  by 
speaking  into  my  companion's  ear  as  into  a  telephone  receiver,  and 
bellowing  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  could  I  make  myself  heard. 

Then  the  storm  abated  —  gradually  at  first,  then  suddenly,  and  with 
its  ceasing  our  tones  were  still  shrill  and  strident.  Quickly  the  sun 
burst  forth  again,  to  blaze  fiercely  upon  us ;  though  not  for  long.  All 
that  day  the  deluges  broke  in  succession  so  rapid  that  we  had  no  no- 
tion of  their  number.  More  often  than  not  they  caught  us  climbing  a 
sheer  mountain-side  by  a  narrow,  clay-bottomed  path  down  which  an 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       417 

ever-increasing  brook  poured,  washing  us  off  our  feet  while  we 
clutched  at  the  overhangiiff  bushes. 

The  boh  led  us,  by  zigzag  routes,  over  two  mountain  ranges  before 
the  day  was  done.  At  sunset,  we  were  descending  into  a  third  valley 
when  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  tiny  clearing  and  a  tinier  village. 
"  Thenganyenam  "  the  natives  called  it.  There  were  four  bamboo  huts 
and  a  dak  bungalow,  housing  a  population  of  thirty-one  "  wild  men  " 
and  one  tame  one.  To  take  the  census  was  no  difficult  matter,  for 
the  inhabitants  poured  forth  from  their  hovels  before  we  had  crossed 
five  yards  of  the  clearing. 

At  their  head  trotted  the  domesticated  human.  In  all  the  shriek- 
ing, gaping  band  of  men,  women,  and  children  there  was  no  other  that 
wore  more  than  a  loin-cloth  or  an  abbreviated  shirt.  He  was  a  babu, 
the  "manager"  of  the  public  rest-house.  With  a  majestic  bow  of 
deepest  reverence  he  offered  us  welcome,  turned  to  wave  back  the  awe- 
stricken  populace  with  the  gesture  of  a  man  born  to  command,  and 
led  the  way  with  martial  stride  to  the  government  bungalow. 

"  Look  here,  babu,"  I  began,  as  we  sank  down  into  wicker  chairs 
on  the  veranda,  "  this  is  a  splendid  little  surprise  to  find  a  dak  bung- 
alow and  a  man  who  speaks  English,  here  in  the  jungle.  But  we  're 
no  millionaires;  and  the  government  fee  is  two  rupees,  eh?  Too 
strong  for  us.     Can't  you  get  us  a  cheaper  lodging  in  one  of  the  huts  ?  " 

*'  The  government,"  returned  the  babu,  with  careful  enunciation, 
"  the  government  have  make  the  dak  bungalow  for  Europeans.  Why ; 
you  may  not  ask  me.  In  two  years  and  nine  days  that  I  am  living  in 
Thenganyenam  there  are  come  two  white  men,  and  one  have  only 
rested  and  not  sleep.  But  because  the  dak  bungalow  is  make,  all 
sahibs  coming  in  Thenganyenam  must  stop  in  it.  When  I  have  see 
you  coming  by  the  foot  and  not  by  the  horses  I  must  know  that  you 
have  not  plenty  money.  Every  day  we  are  not  everybody  rich.  How 
strong  you  have  the  legs  to  come  from  Kawkeriek  by  the  foot !  The 
two  rupees  you  must  not  pay.  If  you  can  give  some  little  to  the  cook, 
that  he  make  you  a  supper — " 

"  That 's  the  word,"  burst  out  James.  "  Sure,  we  pay  for  our  chow. 
Where  's  the  chowkee  ?     Tell  him  to  get  busy." 

"  But,"  apologized  the  babu,  "  this  is  a  very  jungly  place  and  we 
have  not  proper  food  for  Europeans." 

"  Holy  dingoes !  "  shrieked  the  Australian.  "  Do  I  hear  that  old, 
stale  joke  again?  Bring  a  pan  of  rice,  or  a  raw  turnip,  or  a  fried 
snake,  anything,  only  julty  karow.     That  wobbly-legged  boh  scoffed 


4i8      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

all  his  sandwiches  without  saying  *  How  d  'ye  do,'  and  that  breakfast  in 
Kawky  did  n  't  last  an  hour.     Ring  up  the  ifeowkee." 

"  The  other  day,"  observed  the  babu,  reminiscently,  "  there  was  a 
chicken  in  Thenganyenam.     I  shall  send  the  cook  to  hunt  him." 

Through  the  united  efforts  of  the  Thenganyenamians,  the  solitary 
fowl  was  run  to  earth,  with  more  hubbub  than  dispatch,  and  sacri- 
ficed in  sight  of  the  assembled  multitude.  A  delay  that  was  both 
painful  and  unaccountable  ensued  before  it  appeared  before  us  as 
tongue-scorching  currie,  in  an  ample  setting  of  hard-boiled  rice. 

Meanwhile  we  had  pulled  off  our  water-soaked  rags,  rubbed  down 
with  a  strip  of  canvas,  and  donned  our  extra  garments.  The  change 
was  most  gratifying.  It  was  not  until  then  that  we  realized  the  full 
value  of  the  squares  of  oil-cloth  that  had  kept  our  "  swag  "  dry.  Sup- 
per over,  we  drove  the  babu  forth  into  the  night  and  turned  in  on  the 
canvas  charpoys. 

The  swamps  and  streams  through  which  we  had  plunged  during 
the  day  had  swarmed  with  leeches.  One  of  these,  having  imbedded  it- 
self in  a  vein  of  my  right  ankle,  refused  to  be  dislodged.  At  supper 
a  tiny  stream  of  blood  had  trickled  along  my  toes ;  but,  fancying  the 
flow  would  cease  of  itself,  I  made  no  efforts  to  staunch  it.  I  awoke 
in  the  morning  with  the  sensation  of  being  held  captive.  The  blood, 
oozing  out  during  the  night,  had  congealed,  gluing  my  right  leg  to 
the  canvas  of  the  charpoy. 

Before  I  had  dressed,  the  Hindu  cook  and  care-taker  wandered  into 
the  room ;  and,  catching  sight  of  the  long,  red  stain,  gave  one  lusty 
shriek,  and  tumbled  out  on  the  veranda.  James,  who  had  slept  in  an 
adjoining  chamber,  was  awakened  by  the  bellow,  and,  hearing  the 
Hindustanee  word  for  "  blood,"  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  conviction 
that  I  had  been  assassinated  as  he  slept.  I  was  explaining  the  mat- 
ter to  him  when  the  cook  returned,  wild  of  eye,  and  bearing  the  regis- 
ter in  which  we  had  inscribed  our  names  the  evening  before.  Waving 
his  free  arm  now  at  the  book,  now  at  the  charpoy,  he  danced  about  us 
screaming  excitedly.  Comprehending  little  of  his  voluble  chatter, 
we  waved  him  off  and  stepped  out  upon  the  veranda.  The  "  man- 
ager "  was  just  mounting  the  steps. 

"  Here,  babu,"  demanded  James,  "  what 's  biting  our  friend  from  the 
kitchen?" 

The  Hindu  turned  to  his  superior,  all  but  choking  himself  over  his 
convulsive  utterance.     Tears  were  streaming  down  his  tawny  cheeks. 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        419 

"  He  says,"  cried  the  ttlbu,  when  the  cook  fell  silent  at  last,  "  in  the 
charpoy  is  much  blood.     Have  you  become  wounded  ?  " 

"  It  was  only  a  blood-sucker,"  I  explained,  "  but  where  does  the 
register  come  in  ?  " 

"  The  cook  asks  that  you  will  write  all  the  story  of  the  blood  in  it, 
very  careful." 

"  What  nonsense,"  I  answered,  when  James'  mirth  had  subsided. 
"  I  '11  pay  for  the  damage  to  the  charpoy." 

"  Oh !  It  is  no  dam-mage,"  protested  the  babu,  "  no  dam-mage 
at  all.  He  is  not  ask  for  pay.  But  when  the  inspector  is  coming  and 
seeing  the  much  blood  in  the  charpoy,  he  is  thinking  the  cook  have 
kill  a  man  who  have  sleep  here,  and  he  is  taking  him  to  Kawkeriek 
and  making  him  shot.  Very  bad.  So  cook  cry.  Please,  sir,  write 
you  the  story  in  the  register  book." 

I  sat  down  at  the  veranda  table  and  inscribed  a  dramatic  tale  for 
the  visiting  inspector.  Only  when  I  had  filled  the  page  below  our 
names  and  half  the  next  one,  did  the  Hindu  acknowledge  himself  con- 
tented, and  carry  away  the  book  for  safe  keeping. 

We  stowed  away  our  dry  garments  and  donned  the  rags  and  tat- 
ters we  had  stretched  along  the  ceiling  the  evening  before.  They 
were  still  clammy  wet.  As  for  our  footwear,  we  despaired  for  a  time  of 
getting  into  it,  or  of  being  able  to  walk  if  once  we  did.  Our  feet 
were  blistered  and  swollen  to  the  ankles,  the  shoes  shrunken  and 
wrinkled  until  the  leather  was  as  inflexible  as  sheet-iron.  We  got 
them  on  at  last,  however,  and  hobbled  down  the  veranda  steps  and 
away.  For  the  first  hour  we  advanced  by  spasmodic  bursts,  picking 
our  way  as  across  a  field  of  burning  coals.  James  was  in  even  more  un- 
comfortable straits  than  I.  The  football  buskins,  theoretically  just 
the  thing  for  jungle  tramping,  had,  in  actual  use,  proved  quite  the 
opposite.  The  day  before,  the  Australian  had  slipped  and  stumbled 
over  the  rubble  like  a  man  learning  to  skate.  In  drying,  the  shoes  had 
wrinkled  and  twisted  into  a  shape  that  gave  anything  but  a  firm  foot- 
hold, and  the  heavy  leather  chafed  like  emery  paper.  Wherever  he 
came  upon  a  sharp  stone,  the  sufferer  halted  to  chop  viciously  at  one 
of  the  cleats,  cursing  the  missionary's  judgment  and  snarling  like  one 
wreaking  his  pent-up  vengeance  on  a  mortal  enemy.  Before  noon- 
day came,  he  had  pounded  oflf  the  last  cleat,  not  without  inflicting 
serious  injury  to  the  soles;  and  at  the  first  opportunity  he  borrowed 
a  knife  and  transformed  the  shoes  into  a  decidedly  low  pair  of  ox- 


420      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

fords.  But  even  after  these  radical  alteratiiSfns  he  was  uncomfortably 
shod.  I  much  doubt  whether  the  white  man  has  yet  devised  the  proper 
footwear  for  jungle  tramping.  To  be  foot-sore  seems  to  be  one  of 
the  inevitable  hardships  of  those  who  walk  in  the  tropics.  We,  at 
least,  suffered  more  or  less  pain  at  every  step  from  Kawkeriek  to  the 
end  of  our  journey. 

Thenganyenam  was  no  great  distance  from  the  frontier  village. 
Our  guide  of  the  day  before  had  turned  westward,  but  the  pathway 
between  the  adjacent  hamlets  was  distinctly  enough  marked  to  be  fol- 
lowed. It  was  not  yet  noon  when  we  reached  Myawadi.  A  few 
showers  had  visited  their  fury  upon  us ;  but  the  brilliant  sunshine  was 
again  flooding  the  world  about  us.  Myawadi  was  a  more  populous 
thorp  than  that  we  had  left  in  the  morning,  pitched  along  the  bank  of 
the  stream  that  marks  the  limit  of  old  England's  sway.  An  air  of 
lazy,  soul-filling  contentment  hovered  over  the  tiny  jungle  oasis. 
With  every  puflf  of  the  soft  summer  breeze  the  tinkling  of  the  little 
silver  bells  at  the  top  of  the  pagoda  came  musically  clear  to  our  ears. 
Here  and  there  a  villager  was  stretched  out  on  his  back  in  the  grass. 
It  seemed  ill-mannered  to  break  the  peaceful  repose  of  the  inhabitants. 

Besides  the  stone  and  mud  sanctuary  soaring  above  the  brilliant 
vegetation,  the  most  imposing  edifice  was  a  bamboo  barracks,  housing 
a  little  garrison  of  native  soldiers.  Here  we  stopped,  as  was  our  duty 
before  crossing  the  frontier.  The  sepoys  were  childish,  good-hearted 
fellows  who  made  known  their  astonishment  and  offered  their  con- 
dolences in  expressive  pantomime,  and  did  their  best  to  make  as  ap- 
petizing as  possible  the  dinner  of  rice  and  jungle  vegetables  they  of- 
fered. It  was  fortunate  that  they  were  so  open-handed,  for  we  could 
not  have  purchased  food  in  the  village.  This  jungle  land  has  not  yet 
reached  the  commercial  stage. 

The  native  lieutenant  evinced  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  what  er- 
rand had  brought  us  thus  far  from  the  beaten  track  of  sahibs,  and  our 
pantomimic  explanation  seemed  only  to  increase  his  suspicions.  When 
he  grew  querulous  we  mentioned  the  name  of  Damalaku.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  shrieking  with  delight,  and,  having  danced  about  us  for 
some  time,  detailed  a  sepoy  to  accompany  us  to  the  first  Siamese  vil- 
lage, with  a  note  of  explanation  to  the  head  man. 

When  the  sun  had  begun  its  decline  and  the  latest  storm  had  abated, 
we  left  the  barracks  and  Burma  behind.  The  international  stream 
was  little  wider  than  many  we  had  already  encountered,  and  barely 
waist  deep.     We  forded  it  easily,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  pagoda  bells 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        421 

still  came  faintly  to  our  ears  when  we  climbed  the  sandy  eastern  bank, — 
in  Siam  at  last. 

The  first  village,  we  had  gathered,  was  no  great  distance  off,  so  we 
strolled  leisurely  on  through  the  jungle,  pausing  to  rest  in  shady  thick- 
ets so  often  that  the  sepoy  left  us  in  disgust  and  went  on  alone.  Two 
hours  later  he  paused  on  his  homeward  journey  to  tell  us  in  gestures 
that  he  had  delivered  his  international  note  and  that  the  village  was 
waiting  to  receive  us. 

The  day  was  not  yet  done  when  we  reached  the  outpost  of  Siam, 
to  be  picked  up  at  the  edge  of  the  jungle  by  a  Siamese  of  ape-like 
mien,  who  conducted  us  to  the  hut  of  the  village  head  man. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  trust  magnate  of  the  most  pompous  and  self- 
worshiping  type,  with  the  face  of  an  Alaskan  totem  pole,  the  general 
appearance  of  a  side-show  "  wild  man,"  a  skin  the  color  of  a  door  mat 
that  has  done  service  for  many  years,  dressed  in  a  cast-off  dish  cloth, 
and  you  have  an  exact  vizualization  of  the  man  who  ruled  over 
Masawt.  He  received  us  in  the  ''  city  hall,"  sitting  with  folded  legs 
on  a  grass  mat  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Around  the  walls  of  the 
misshapen  bamboo  shack  squatted  several  briefly-attired  courtiers. 
Through  the  network  partition  that  separated  the  hall  of  ceremonies 
from  the  family  sanctum,  peered  a  parchment-skinned  female,  and  a 
troop  of  dusky  children  not  yet  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  clothing.  If 
we  had  waited  for  an  invitation  to  be  seated  we  might  have  remained 
standing  all  night.  The  attitude  of  the  Siamese  towards  the  European 
is  quite  different  from  that  of  the  Burman.  Their  very  poise  seems  to 
say :  — **  We  are  a  free  people,  not  the  slaves  of  white  men  like  our 
neighbors  over  the  border." 

We  made  ourselves  comfortable  on  the  pliant  floor,  with  our  backs 
to  the  wall,  and  lighted  the  saybullies  that  had  done  service  for  three 
days  past.  For  more  than  an  hour  the  head  man  and  his  satellites 
sat  motionless,  staring  fixedly  at  us,  and  mumbling  in  an  undertone 
without  once  turning  their  heads  towards  those  they  were  addressing. 
The  sun  sank  into  the  jungle  and  swift  darkness  fell.  The  parch- 
ment-skinned female  drifted  into  the  room  and  set  on  the  floor  an 
oil  torch  that  gave  a  poor  imitation  of  a  light.  At  the  dictation  of 
the  babu  of  Thenganyenam,  I  had  jotted  down  a  few  vital  words  of 
Siamese.  When  conversation  lagged,  I  put  this  newly-acquired  vo- 
cabulary to  the  test  by  calling  for  food.  The  head  man  growled,  the 
female  floated  in  once  more  and  placed  at  our  feet  a  small  washtub 
of  boiled  rice. 


422      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Now  this  Oriental  staff  of  life  is  not  without  its  virtues ;  but  to  eat 
one's  fill  of  the  tasteless  stuff  without  any  **  trimmings  "  whatever  is 
rather  a  pleasureless  task.  I  dragged  out  my  notebook  and  again  ran 
my  eyes  down  the  list  of  Siamese  words.  Neither  currie  nor  chicken 
was  represented.  The  only  word  that  appeared  to  be  of  any  value 
under  the  circumstances  was  that  for  "  sugar."  I  bellowed  it  at  the 
head  man.  He  stared  open-mouthed  until  I  had  repeated  it  several 
times. 

"  Sugar  ?  "  he  echoed,  with  an  inflection  of  interrogation  and  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Yes,  sugar,"  I  cried,  sprinkling  an  imaginary  handful  over  the 
rice. 

The  councillors  gazed  at  each  other  with  wondering  eyes,  and  the 
word  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  — "  sugar  ?  " 

"  Sure,  sugar ! "  cried  James,  taking  up  the  refrain. 

A  man  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  marched  across  to  us,  and,  squatting 
before  the  dish,  began  to  run  his  bony  fingers  through  the  rice. 

"  Sugar  ?  "  he  queried,  peering  into  our  faces.  "  No !  no !  "  He 
took  a  pinch  of  the  food  between  his  fingers,  put  it  into  his  mouth, 
and  munched  it  slowly  and  quizzically.  Then  he  shook  his  head  vig- 
orously and  spat  the  mouthful  out  on  the  floor. 

"  No,  no ;  sugar,  no ! "  he  cried. 

"  Of  course  there  's  no  sugar !  "  shouted  James.  "  That 's  why 
we  're  making  a  bloody  holler.     Sugar,  you  thick-headed  mummy !  " 

The  official  taster  retired  to  his  place;  a  silence  fell  over  the  com- 
pany. We  continued  to  shout.  Suddenly  a  ray  of  intelligence  lighted 
up  the  face  of  the  head  man.  Could  it  be  because  we  wanted  sugar 
that  we  were  raising  such  a  hubbub,  rather  than  because  we  fancied 
that  foreign  substance  had  been  inadvertently  spilled  on  our  sup- 
per? He  called  to  the  female.  When  she  appeared  with  a  joint  of 
bamboo  filled  with  muddy  brown  sugar,  the  councillors  rose  gravely 
and  grouped  themselves  about  us.  I  sprinkled  half  the  contents  of 
the  bamboo  on  the  rice,  stirred  up  the  mess,  and  began  to  eat. 

At  the  first  mouthful  such  a  roar  of  laughter  went  up  from  the  as- 
sembly that  I  choked  in  my  astonishment.  Whoever  would  have 
guessed  that  these  gloomy-faced  dignitaries  could  laugh?  The  chief- 
tan  fell  to  shaking  as  with  a  fit,  his  advisers  doubled  up  with  mirth, 
and  aroused  the  entire  community  with  their  shrieks.  Wild-eyed 
Siamese  tumbled  out  of  the  neighboring  huts.  Within  two  minutes 
half  the  village  had  flocked  into  the  room,  and  the  other  half  was 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        423 

howling  for  admittance  and  a  glimpse  of  those  strange  beings  who 
ate  their  rice  with  sugar! 

The  surging  mob  must  surely  have  burst  the  walls  of  the  frail  hut 
asunder,  had  not  the  head  man  risen  to  the  dignity  of  his  position,  and 
driven  all  but  the  high  and  mighty  among  his  subjects  forth  into  the 
night.  Among  those  who  remained  after  the  general  exodus  was  a 
babu.  He  was  a  Siamese  youth  who  had  spent  some  years  in  Ran- 
goon, and  his  extraordinary  erudition,  like  the  garments  he  wore  in 
excess  of  the  diaphanous  native  costume,  weighed  heavily  upon  him 
At  the  instigation  of  the  head  man,  he  subjected  us  to  a  searching 
cross-examination,  and  later  communicated  to  us  the  result  of  a  de- 
bate of  some  two  hours'  duration.  The  jungle  to  the  eastward  was 
next  to  impassable  to  natives;  obviously  such  notoriously  weak  and 
helpless  beings  as  white  men  could  not  endure  its  hardships.  There 
was  in  Masawt  a  squad  of  soldiers  with  whom  we  could  travel  to  Re- 
hang  when  their  reHef  arrived  —  in  a  week  or  ten  days.  Meanwhile 
we  must  remain  in  the  village  as  government  guests. 

James  and  I  raised  a  vigorous  protest  against  this  proposition.  The 
only  reply  to  our  outburst  was  the  assertion  of  the  head  man  that  we 
should  stay  whether  we  liked  it  or  not.  As  the  night  was  well  ad- 
vanced, we  feigned  capitulation  and  made  ready  to  retire.  The  vil- 
lage chief  lighted  us  into  one  of  the  small  rooms  of  his  dwelling  and 
left  us  to  turn  in  on  the  bamboo  floor. 

Had  we  anticipated  any  great  difficulty  in  escaping  in  the  morning 
it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to  have  taken  French  leave  during 
the  night.  Bolts  and  bars  were  unknown  in  Masawt,  and  even  had  our 
door  been  fastened,  it  would  have  needed  only  a  few  kicks  at  the 
flimsy  walls  of  our  chamber  to  make  an  exit  where  we  chose.  We 
had  no  desire  to  lose  a  night's  rest,  however,  and  fell  asleep  with  the 
conviction  that  the  head  man  would  not  be  as  energetic  in  executing 
his  order  as  in  giving  it. 

Nor  was  he.  While  the  mists  still  hovered  over  Masawt,  we  packed 
our  "  swag  "  and  entered  the  council  chamber  in  marching  array.  The 
chief  was  already  astir,  but  the  only  effort  he  made  to  thwart  us  was 
to  shout  somewhat  meekly  when  we  stepped  out  into  the  dripping 
dawn. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  town  began  a  faint  suggestion  of  a  path, 
but  it  soon  faded  away  and  we  pushed  and  tore  our  way  through  the 
jungle,  guided  only  by  the  pocket  compass.  The  militant  vegetation 
wrought  havoc  to  our  rags  and  cut  and  gashed  us  from  brow  to 


424      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

ankles;  the  perspiration  ran  in  stinging  streams  along  our  lacerated 
skins  and  dripped  from  our  faces.  Though  we  fought  the  under- 
growth tooth  and  nail  it  is  doubtful  if  we  advanced  two  miles  an  hour. 

The  sun  was  high  when  we  came  upon  the  first  evidence  that  man 
had  passed  that  way  before  —  a  clearing  not  over  six  feet  square,  in  the 
center  of  which  was  a  slimy  pool  and  a  few  recently-cut  joints  of 
bamboo.  With  these  we  drank  our  fill  of  the  tepid  water  and  had 
thrown  ourselves  down  in  the  shade  when  we  were  startled  to  our 
feet  by  the  sound  of  human  voices.  The  anticipation  of  an  attack 
by  murderous  dacoits  turned  quickly  to  that  of  a  forcible  return  to 
Ma^awt,  as  there  burst  into  the  clearing  a  squad  of  soldiers. 

There  were  seven  in  the  party,  a  sergeant  and  four  privates,  armed 
with  muskets,  and  two  coolie  carriers,  each  bowed  under  the  weight 
of  two  baskets  slung  on  a  bamboo  pole.  After  the  first  gasp  of  as- 
tonishment the  soldiers  sprang  for  the  bamboo  cups  beside  the  water- 
hole,  while  the  servants  knelt  down  to  set  their  burdens  on  the  grass. 
The  fear  that  the  troopers  had  been  sent  to  apprehend  us  was  quickly 
dispelled  by  their  acquiescence  in  permitting  us  to  handle  their 
weapons.  They  were  bound  for  Rehang,  but  why  they  had  been  re- 
leased from  garrison  duty  at  the  frontier  village  so  long  before  the 
time  set,  we  could  not  learn. 

A  formidable  force  was  this  indeed.  There  was  far  less  sugges- 
tion of  the  soldier  about  the  fellows  than  of  half-grown  youths  play- 
ing at  a  military  game.  The  sergeant,  larger  than  the  others,  came 
barely  to  James'  chin ;  and  the  Australian  was  not  tall.  The  privates 
were  undeveloped  little  runts,  any  one  of  whom  the  average  American 
school  boy  could  have  tied  in  a  knot  and  tossed  aside  into  the  jungle. 
There  was  little  of  the  martial  air  either  in  their  demeanor  or  in  their 
childlike  countenances.  They  were  dressed  in  regulation  khaki,  ex- 
cept that  their  trousers  came  only  to  their  knees,  leaving  their  scrawny 
legs  bare.  On  their  heads  were  flat  forage  caps  of  the  German  type ; 
from  their  belts  hung  bayonets;  and  around  the  waist  of  each  was 
tied  a  stocking-like  sack  of  rice. 

We  conversed  with  them  at  some  length,  so  adept  had  we  become 
in  the  language  of  signs.  Long  after  I  had  forgotten  the  exact  means 
employed  in  communicating  our  thoughts,  the  ideas  that  we  exchanged 
remained.  Among  other  things  I  attempted  to  impress  upon  the 
sergeant  the  fact  that  my  own  country  held  possessions  not  far  from 
his  own.  He  caught  the  idea  well  enough,  except  that,  where  I  had 
said  Philippines,  he  understood  Siam.     His  sneers  were  most  scathing. 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       425 

The  bare  suggestion  that  the  white  man  held  any  sway  over  Muang 
Thai  —  the  free  country  —  was  ludicrous.  Even  the  carriers  grinned 
sarcastically.  A  strange  thing  is  patriotism.  Here  were  these  cit- 
izens of  a  poor  little  state,  stranded  between  the  possessions  of  two 
great  powers,  boasting  of  their  unalienable  independence,  utterly  ob- 
livious of  the  fact  that  their  national  existence  could  not  last  a  week 
if  one  of  those  powers  ceased  to  glare  jealously  at  her  rival.  When 
they  had  eaten  a  jungle  lunch,  the  soldiers  stretched  out  for  their 
siesta,  and  we  went  on  alone. 

It  was  long  hours  afterward  that  we  made  out  through  a  break  in 
the  undergrowth  two  miserable  huts.  Not  having  tasted  food  since 
the  night  before,  we  dashed  eagerly  forward.  Two  emaciated  hags, 
dressed  in  short  skirts  and  ugly,  broad-brimmed  hats  of  attap  leaves, 
were  clawing  the  mud  of  a  tiny  garden  patch  before  the  first  hovel. 
I  called  for  food  and  shook  a  handful  of  coppers  in  their  faces,  but, 
though  they  certainly  understood,  they  made  no  reply.  We  danced 
excitedly  about  them,  shrieking  our  Siamese  vocabulary  in  their  ears. 
Still  they  stared,  with  half-open  mouths,  displaying  uneven  rows  of 
repellant  black  teeth.  We  had  anticipated  such  a  reception.  Even 
the  missionary  of  Moulmein  had  warned  us  that  the  jungle  folk  of 
Siam  would  not  sell  food  to  travelers.  The  age  of  barter  has  not  yet 
penetrated  these  mountain  fastnesses.  What  value,  after  all,  were 
copper  coins  in  any  quantity  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  howling  wilder- 
ness? 

We  waded  through  the  mire  to  the  next  hutch.  Under  it  were 
squatted  two  men  and  a  woman,  and  a  half-dozen  mud-bespattered 
brats  sprawled  about  a  crude  veranda  overhead.  This  family,  too,  re- 
ceived us  coldly,  answering  neither  yes  nor  no  to  our  request  for 
food.  We  climbed  the  rickety  bamboo  ladder  into  the  hut  and  began 
to  forage  for  ourselves.  The  men  scrambled  up  after  us.  When  I 
picked  up  a  basket  of  rice,  the  bolder  of  the  pair  grasped  it  with  both 
hands.  I  pushed  him  aside  and  he  retreated  meekly  to  a  far  corner. 
In  other  baskets  we  found  dried  fish,  a  few  bananas,  and  a  goodly  sup- 
ply of  eggs.  Beside  the  flat  mud  fire-place  were  two  large  kettles  and 
a  bundle  of  fagots.  While  James  broke  up  branches  and  started  a 
blaze,  I  brought  rain  water  from  a  bamboo  bucket,  in  cocoanut  shells, 
and  filled  the  kettles. 

Chimney  was  there  none,  nor  hole  in  the  roof ;  and  the  smoke  all  but 
choked  and  blinded  us  before  the  task  was  done.  The  rice  and  fish 
we  boiled  in  one  conglomerate  mess,  pouring  it  out  on  a  flat  leaf 


426      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

basket  when  it  approached  an  edible  condition,  and  dashing  out  or.  the 
veranda  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  The  householder  remained  mo- 
tionless in  his  corner.  Having  found,  after  long  search,  a  bamboo 
joint  filled  with  coarse  salt,  we  seasoned  the  steaming  repast  and  fell 
upon  it.  James  had  the  bad  fortune  to  choke  on  a  fish  bone,  but  re- 
covered in  time  to  swear  volubly  when  he  discovered  in  the  concoc- 
tion what  looked  suspiciously  like  a  strip  of  loin-cloth.  By  the  time 
we  had  despatched  the  rice,  a  dozen  eggs,  and  as  many  bananas,  we 
were  ready  to  push  on.  I  handed  the  downcast  native  a  tecal  —  the 
rupee  of  Siam  —  which  he  clutched  with  a  satisfied  grunt,  as  well  he 
might,  for  a  shopkeeper  would  not  have  demanded  a  fourth  as  much 
for  what  we  had  confiscated. 

Just  at  sunset  we  burst  into  the  straggling  village  of  Banpawa. 
Some  forty  howling  storms  had  added  to  our  entertainment  during 
the  day  and  we  had  forded  an  even  greater  number  of  streams.  My 
jacket  was  torn  to  ribbons ;  my  back  and  shoulders  were  sadly  sun- 
burned ;  in  a  struggle  with  a  tenacious  thicket  I  had  been  bereft  of  a  leg 
of  my  trousers;  and  the  Australian  was  as  pitiable  an  object  to  look 
upon. 

Near  the  center  of  the  village  was  an  unpretentious  Buddhist  mon- 
astery beside  which  the  priests  had  erected  a  shelter  for  travelers,  a 
large  thatch  roof  supported  by  slender  bamboo  pillars.  Under  it 
were  huddled  nearly  a  score  of  Laos  carriers,  surrounded  by  bales 
and  bundles;  Banpawa  being  an  important  station  of  the  route  fol- 
lowed by  these  human  freight  trains  of  the  Siamese  jungle.  They 
were  surly,  taciturn  fellows,  who,  though  they  stared  open-mouthed 
when  we  appeared,  treated  us  like  men  under  a  ban  of  excommunica- 
tion. 

Physically  they  were  sights  to  feast  one's  eyes  upon ;  splendidly  de- 
veloped, though  short  of  stature,  with  great  knots  of  muscles  stand- 
ing out  on  their  glistening  brown  bodies.  A  small  loin-cloth  was  their 
only  attire.  Above  it  their  skins  were  thickly  tattooed  to  their  necks 
with  fantastic  figures,  all  in  red,  representations  of  strange  and  re- 
pulsive beasts,  among  which  that  of  a  swollen  fat  pig  was  most  often 
duplicated.  Below  the  indispensable  garment  the  figures  were  blue, 
even  more  closely  crowded  together,  but  stopping  short  at  the  knees. 

It  is  said  that  this  custom  of  making  pictorial  supplements  of  them- 
selves was  first  forced  upon  the  Laos  by  a  wrathful  king.  A  youthful 
servant,  received  as  an  attendant  in  the  royal  harem,  was  rapidly  be- 
coming a  great  favorite  among  the  secluded  ladies,  when  one  sad  day 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       427 

the  appalling  information  leaked  out  that  the  supposed  country  maid 
was  really  a  man.  When  the  culprit  had  been  duly  drawn  and  quar- 
tered, an  imperative  edict  went  forth  from  the  palace  of  his  raging 
majesty,  commanding  every  male  in  the  kingdom  to  submit  forthwith 
to  the  tattooers'  needles.  Even  to-day,  this  custom,  mentioned  by 
Marco  Polo,  is  still  universal  among  the  males. 

We  sought  to  buy  food  from  our  sullen  companions.  They  growled 
for  answer.  Like  the  soldiers,  each  wore  round  his  waist  a  bag  of 
rice ;  a  few  were  preparing  their  evening  meals  over  fagot  fires  at  the 
edge  of  the  shelter ;  but  not  a  grain  would  they  sell.  A  raging  storm 
broke  while  we  were  wandering  from  one  to  another,  shaking  money 
in  their  faces.  When  it  had  abated  somewhat,  we  hobbled  out  into 
the  night  to  appeal  to  the  villagers.  There  were  some  twenty  huts  in 
the  clearing,  into  each  of  which  we  climbed,  in  spite  of  our  aching  legs 
Every  householder  returned  us  the  same  pantomimic  answer  —  he 
never  sold  food,  but  he  was  sure  his  next  door  neighbor  did,  and  the 
neighbor  was  as  sure  that  it  was  in  the  next  hovel  that  our  money 
would  make  us  welcome. 

We  played  this  game  of  puss-wants-a-corner  for  an  hour,  and  we 
were  still  "  it "  when  we  reached  the  last  dwelling.  The  village  was 
really  too  populous  a  community  in  which  to  repeat  the  tactics  that 
had  won  us  dinner ;  but  hunger  made  us  somewhat  indifferent  to  con- 
sequences. We  climbed  boldly  into  the  hut  and  caught  up  a  kettle. 
The  householder  shrieked  like  a  man  on  the  rack;  and,  before  we  had 
kindled  a  fire,  a  mob  of  his  fellow  townsmen  swarmed  into  the  shack 
and  fell  upon  us.  They  were  not  particularly  fierce  fighters.  We 
shook  and  kicked  them  off  like  puppies,  but  when  the  last  one  had 
tumbled  down  the  ladder  we  awoke  to  the  sad  intelligence  that  they 
had  carried  off  in  their  retreat  every  pot,  pan,  and  comestible  on  the 
premises.  Besides  the  bare  walls  there  remained  only  a  naked  brown 
baby  that  rolled  about  the  middle  of  the  floor,  howling  lustily. 

The  village  population  was  screaming  around  the  shanty  in  a  way 
that  made  us  glad  we  had  a  hostage.  James  sat  down,  gazed  sadly  at 
the  wailing  brat  and  shook  his  head. 

"  No  good,"  he  announced.  *'  Not  fat  enough.  Anyway  there  's  no 
kettle  to  cook  it  in.     Let 's  vamoose." 

We  turned  towards  the  door.  A  man  was  peering  over  the  edge  of 
the  veranda.  By  the  silken  band  around  his  brow  we  knew  him  for 
a  Burman ;  and  he  spoke  Hindustanee.  We  gathered  from  his  excited 
chatter  in  that  language  that  he  had  come  to  lead  us  to  a  place  where 


428      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

food  was  sold.  As  we  reached  the  ground  the  throng  parted  to  let 
us  pass,  but  the  frenzied  natives  danced  screaming  about  us,  shaking 
sticks  and  cudgels  in  our  faces.  A  few  steps  from  the  hovel  some 
bold  spirit  struck  me  a  resounding  whack  on  the  back  of  the  head. 
It  was  no  light  blow,  but  the  weapon  was  a  hollow  bamboo  and  no 
damage  resulted.  When  I  turned  to  fall  upon  my  assailant  the  whole 
crew  took  to  their  heels  and  fled  into  the  night. 

'*  All  I  've  got  to  say,"  panted  James,  as  we  hurried  on  after  our 
guide,  "  is,  I  'm  bloody  glad  that 's  not  a  bunch  of  Irishmen.  Where 
would  the  pioneer  beachcombers  of  the  Malay  Peninsula  be  now  if 
that  collection  of  dish-rags  knew  how  to  scrap  ?  " 

The  Burman  led  us  through  a  half-mile  of  mire  and  brush,  and  a 
stream  that  was  almost  waist-deep,  to  a  suburb  of  Banpawa.  Four 
huts  housed  the  commuters.  After  long  parley  our  guide  gained  us 
admittance  to  one  of  the  dwellings  and  sat  down  to  keep  us  company 
until  our  rice  and  fish  had  been  boiled.  He  was  something  of  a  cos- 
mopolite, fairly  clever  in  piecing  together  a  language  of  gestures  and  the 
few  words  we  had  in  common.  The  conversation  turned  naturally  — 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  we  were  two  as  ragged  sahibs  as  one  would  run 
across  in  a  lifetime  of  wandering  —  to  the  question  of  personal 
attire.  Our  sponsor  was  well  dressed  for  the  time  and  place,  and 
the  whim  suddenly  came  upon  him  to  substitute  a  tropical  helmet  for 
the  silk  band  about  his  brow.  He  offered  James  a  rupee  for  his 
topee,  and  pondered  long  over  the  refusal  of  the  offer.  Then  he  rose 
to  depart,  but  halted  on  the  edge  of  the  night  to  hold  up  two  fingers. 

"  Do  rupika !     Acha,  sahib  ?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  You  're  crazy !  "  retorted  the  Australian,  "  Think  I  want  to  get  a 
sunstroke  ?  " 

The  Burman  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  disgruntled  air  and 
splashed  sadly  away. 

Our  host  was  a  sulky  "  wild  man  "  in  the  prime  of  life,  his  mate  a 
buxom  matron  who  had  not  yet  lost  the  comeliness  inherent  in  any 
healthy,  well-developed  female  of  the  human  species.  The  pair,  evi- 
dently, had  been  long  married,  for  they  had  but  seven  children. 

A  section  of  the  bamboo  floor  of  the  tiny  hut  was  raised  a  few  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  rest,  forming  a  sort  of  divan.  On  this  we 
squatted  with  the  family,  chatting  over  our  after-supper  saybullies. 
The  wife,  for  all  her  race,  was  a  true  sister  of  Pandora.  What  es- 
pecially awakened  her  curiosity  was  the  color  of  our  skins ;  though 
they  were  not,  at  that  moment,  particularly  white.     She  was  seated 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       429 

next  to  James,  suckling  two  lusty  infants,  and  gazing  with  monkey- 
like fascination  at  the  hand  of  the  Australian  that  rested  on  the  divan 
beside  her.  Hugging  the  babes  to  her  breast  with  one  arm,  she  edged 
nearer  and  ran  her  fingers  across  the  back  of  the  Australian's  sun- 
burned paw.  To  her  astonishment  the  color  would  not  rub  off.  She 
pushed  up  a  sleeve  of  his  jacket  and  began  to  examine  the  forearm ; 
when  my  companion,  till  then  absorbed  in  conversation,  snatched  his 
hand  away  with  an  exclamation  of  annoyance.  No  sooner  had  he  let 
it  fall  again,  than  she  resumed  the  examination. 

"  Quit  it !  "  cried  James,  turning  upon  her,  "  Or  I  '11  pay  you  back 
in  your  own  coin."  The  husband  snarled  fiercely,  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and,  crowding  in  between  his  wife  and  the  Australian,  glared  savagely 
at  him  as  long  as  the  evening  lasted. 

We  turned  in  soon  afterward,  eleven  of  us,  on  the  divan.  Though 
the  front  wall  of  the  shack  was  lacking,  we  needed  no  covering;  even 
when  the  rain  poured  we  sweated  as  in  the  glare  of  sunlight.  The  suck- 
lings took  turns  in  maintaining  a  continual  wailing  through  the  night ; 
the  other  brats  amused  themselves  in  walking  and  tumbling  over  our 
prostrate  forms ;  a  lizard  chorus  sang  their  monotonous  selections  with 
unusual  vim  and  vigor.  If  we  slept  at  all  it  was  in  brief,  semi-con- 
scious snatches. 

With  daylight,  came  the  Burman  to  repeat  his  attempt  to  purchase 
my  companion's  helmet.     James  spurned  the  offer  as  before. 

"  Then  yours,  sahib,"  pleaded  the  fellow,  in  Hindustanee.  "  One 
rupee ! " 

"  One  ?  "  I  cried.  "  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  know  that  the  Swedish 
consul  of  Ceylon  once  wore  that  topee  ?  " 

"  One  rupee,"  repeated  the  Burman,  not  having  understood. 

"  Tell  him  to  chase  himself,"  said  James. 

"  Still,"  I  mused,  "  if  he  'd  give  two  dibs  it  'd  almost  double  our 
stake." 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?  "  shouted  the  Australian.  "  The  sun  would  knock 
you  out  in  an  hour." 

"  But  two  more  chips  might  just  carry  us  through,"  I  retorted, 
"  and  starving  's  worse  than  the  sun.     I  '11  risk  it." 

"  Will  you  sell  ?  "  demanded  the  Burman. 

"  Two  rupees." 

"  One !  "  shrieked  the  Oriental,  "  Two  for  the  sahib's  which  is  new, 
One  for  yours." 

There  ensued  a  half-hour  of  bargaining,  but  the  Burman  gave  in 


430      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

at  last,  and,  dropping  two  tecals  in  my  hand,  marched  proudly  away 
with  that  illustrious  old  topee,  that  I  had  won  in  fair  barter  with  the 
Norseman,  set  down  on  his  ears. 

I  handed  one  of  the  tecals  to  our  scowling  host  and  we  hit  the  trail 
again.  Out  of  sight  of  the  hamlet  we  halted  to  don  the  extra  suits  in 
our  bundles.  The  Australian  gazed  sorrowfully  at  his  buskins  while  I 
slipped  on  my  second  pair  of  shoes.  From  the  rags  and  tatters  I  was 
discarding  I  made  a  band  to  wind  around  my  brow,  after  the  fashion 
of  Burma.  Even  with  the  top  of  my  head  exposed  to  sun  and  rain, 
as  it  was  for  days,  I  suffered  no  evil  effects. 

The  territory  beyond  Banpawa  was  more  savage  than  any  we  had 
yet  encountered;  everywhere  a  rank  vegetation  so  thick  that  our 
feet  rarely  reached  the  ground.  Now  and  again  we  plunged  into  a 
thicket  only  to  be  caught  as  in  a  net,  and,  powerless  to  advance,  re- 
treated with  rent  garments  and  bleeding  hands  and  faces  to  fight  our 
way  around  the  impenetrable  spot.  We  were  now  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  mountains.  Range  after  range  of  unbroken  jungle  succeeded 
each  other.  From  every  summit  there  spread  out  a  boundless  forest 
of  teak  and  bamboo,  turgid  with  riotous  undergrowth.  Mountains 
that  were  just  blue  wreaths  in  the  morning  climbed  higher  and  higher 
into  the  sky  —  rolling  ranges  without  a  yard  of  clearing  to  break  the 
monotony  of  waving  tree  tops  —  and  beyond  them  more  mountains, 
identical  in  formation.  Level  spaces  were  there  none.  Descents  so 
steep  that  the  force  of  gravity  sent  us  plunging  headlong  through 
thorn-bristling  thickets,  ended  in  the  uncanny  depths  of  V-shaped  val- 
leys at  the  very  base  of  steeper  ascents  which  we  mounted  hand  over 
hand  as  a  sailor  climbs  a  rope.  In  our  ears  sounded  the  incessant 
humming  of  insects ;  now  and  then  a  snake  squirmed  off  through  the 
bushes ;  more  than  once  there  came  faintly  to  us  the  roar  of  some  dis- 
tant brute.  Of  animate  nature,  most  numerous  were  the  apes  that 
swarmed  in  the  dense  network  of  branches  overhead,  and  scampered 
screaming  away,  at  our  intrusion,  into  the  oppressive  depths  of  the 
forest. 

Though  the  rains  continued  unabated,  there  were  fewer  streams 
in  these  higher  altitudes,  and  those  were  mere  rivulets  of  silt  fighting 
their  way  down  the  slopes.  At  every  mudhole  we  halted  to  drink ;  for 
within  us  burned  a  thirst  such  as  no  man  knows  who  has  not  suffered 
it  in  the  jungle-girdled  waist  line  of  Mother  Earth.  Chocolate-col- 
ored water  we  drank,  water  alive  with  squirming  animal  life,  in  pools 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        431 

out  of  which  wriggled  brilliant  green  snakes.  Often  I  rose  to  my  feet 
to  find  a  leech  clinging  to  my  nether  lip. 

As  the  day  grew,  a  raging  hunger  fell  upon  us.  In  a  sharp  valley 
we  came  upon  a  tree  on  the  trunk  of  which  hung  a  dozen  or  more 
jack-fruits  within  easy  reach.  We  grasped  one  and  attempted  to  pull 
it  down.  The  short,  fibrous  stem  was  as  stout  as  a  manila  rope,  and 
knife  had  we  none.  We  wrapped  our  arms  around  the  fruit  and 
tugged  with  the  strength  of  despair;  as  well  have  tried  to  pull  up 
a  ship's  anchor  by  hand.  We  chopped  at  the  stem  with  sharp  stones ; 
we  hunted  up  great  rocks  and  attempted  to  split  the  fruit  open  on 
the  tree,  screaming  with  rage  and  bruising  our  fingers.  Streams  of 
perspiration  coursed  down  our  sun-scorched  skins,  hunger  and  thirst 
redoubled,  and  still  our  efforts  availed  us  nothing.  When  we  gave 
up  and  plunged  on,  our  assault  on  the  fruit  had  barely  scratched 
the  adamantine  rind. 

Weary  and  famished,  matted  with  mud  from  crown  to  toe,  and 
bleeding  from  innumerable  superficial  lacerations,  we  were  still  grap- 
pling with  the  throttling  vegetation  well  on  in  the  afternoon  when 
James,  a  bit  in  advance,  uttered  a  triumphant  shriek. 

"  A  path !     A  path !  "  he  cried,  "  and  a  telegraph  wire !  " 

Certain  that  hunger  and  the  sun  had  turned  his  brain,  I  tore  my 
way  through  the  thicket  that  separated  us.  His  cry  had  been  awak- 
ened by  no  mirage  of  delirium.  A  path  there  was,  narrow  and  steep, 
but  showing  evidences  of  recent  travel,  and,  overhead,  a  sagging  tele- 
graph wire  running  from  tree  to  tree.  The  compass  had  brought  us 
again  to  that  elusive  route  followed  by  the  native  porters. 

A  half-hour  along  it  and  we  came  to  a  little  plain,  intersected  by  a 
swift  stream,  in  the  backwater  of  which  swam  a  covey  of  snow-white 
ducks.  On  the  western  bank  stood  a  weather-beaten  bungalow,  over 
the  door  of  which  was  a  faded  shield  bearing  the  white  elephant  of 
Siam.  Above  it  disappeared  the  telegraph  wire.  Our  thirst  quenched, 
we  mounted  the  narrow  steps  and  shouted  to  attract  attention.  There 
was  no  response.  We  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered.  The  room 
was  some  eight  feet  square  and  entirely  unfurnished,  but  in  one 
corner  hung  an  unpainted  telephone  instrument  of  crude  and  ancient 
construction.  A  spider  had  spun  his  web  across  the  mouth  of  the 
receiver  and  there  were  no  signs  that  the  hut  had  been  occupied  within 
modern  times. 

"  Nothing  doing  here,"  said  James.     "  Let 's  swim  the  creek." 


432      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

On  the  opposite  bank  was  a  bamboo  rest-house,  smaller  than  that  of 
Banpawa,  but  with  a  floor  raised  some  feet  above  the  fever-breeding 
ground.  Back  of  it,  among  the  trees,  stood  a  cluster  of  seven  huts. 
We  made  the  round  of  them,  seeking  food;  but  returned  to  the  rest- 
house  with  nothing  but  the  information  that  the  village  was  called 
Kathai  Ywa.  Nine  Laos  carriers  had  arrived,  among  whom  were 
several  we  had  seen  the  evening  before.  They  had,  perhaps,  some 
secret  grudge  against  white  men,  for  they  not  only  refused  to  sell  us 
rice,  but  scowled  and  snarled  when  we  drew  near  them.  The  day  was 
not  yet  done.  We  should  have  pushed  on  had  not  James  fallen  victim 
to  a  burning  jungle  fever. 

With  plenty  of  water  at  hand,  hunger  grew  apace.  For  a  time  the 
forlorn  hope  that  some  more  tractable  human  might  wander  into 
Kathai  Ywa  buoyed  us  up.  But  each  new  arrival  was  more  stupid 
and  surly  than  his  forerunner.  The  sun  touched  the  western  tree- 
tops.  James  lay  on  his  back,  red-eyed  with  fever.  Eat  we  must,  if 
we  were  to  have  strength  to  continue  in  the  morning.  I  made  a  sec- 
ond circuit  of  the  village,  hoping  to  win  by  bluster  what  we  had  not 
with  cajolery.  The  community  rose  en  masse  and  swarmed  upon  me. 
The  males  carried  long,  overgrown  knives;  the  females,  cudgels.  I 
returned  hastily  to  the  rest-house. 

The  sight  of  the  telephone  wire  awakened  within  me  the  senseless 
notion  that  I  might  summon  assistance  from  some  neighboring  vil- 
lage. I  left  my  shoes  and  trousers  in  charge  of  the  Australian  and 
dashed  through  the  stream  and  into  the  government  bungalow.  At 
the  first  call  I  "  got "  someone.  Who  or  where  he  was  I  could  not 
guess.  I  bawled  into  the  receiver  English,  French,  German,  and  all 
the  Hindustanee  I  could  muster.  When  I  paused  for  breath  the  un- 
known subscriber  had  "  rung  off."  I  jangled  the  bell  and  shook  and 
pounded  the  apparatus  for  five  minutes.  A  glass-eyed  lizard  ran  out 
along  the  wire  and  stared  down  upon  me.  His  mate  in  the  thatch 
above  screeched  mockingly.  Then  another  voice  sounded  faintly  in 
my  ear. 

"Hello!"  I  shouted,  ''Who's  this?  We  want  to  eat.  D'  you 
speak  English?    Do  sahib  hai,  Kathai  Ywa.     Send  us  some — " 

A  flood  of  meaningless  jabber  interrupted  me.  Two  words  I 
caught, —  that  old,  threadbare  phrase  '*  namelay-voo."  I  had  rung  up 
a  Burman ;  but  he  was  no  babu. 

"  English !  "  I  shrieked.  "  Anyone  there  that  speaks  English  ?  We  're 
sahibs!     Hello!     Hello,  I  say!  Hello— " 


A  Laos  carrier  crossing  the  stream   that  separates  Burma  from   Siam 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       433 

No  answer.  Central  had  cut  me  off  again.  I  rang  the  bell  until 
my  arm  was  lame  and  listened  breathlessly.  All  was  still.  I  dropped 
the  receiver  and  tumbled  out  of  the  hut  determined  to  throttle  one  of 
the  Laos  carriers.  In  the  middle  of  the  stream  I  slipped  on  a  stone 
and  fell  on  my  knees,  the  water  to  my  arm-pits.  The  startled  ducks 
ran  away  before  me.  I  snatched  up  a  club  and  pursued  them  through 
the  village  and  back  to  the  creek  again,  the  inhabitants  screaming  in 
my  wake.  I  threw  the  weapon  at  the  nearest  fowl.  It  was  only  a 
joint  of  bamboo  and  fell  short.  The  ducks  took  to  the  water.  I 
plunged  in  after  them  and  once  more  fell  sprawling. 

Before  I  could  scramble  to  my  feet  a  shout  sounded  near  at  hand, 
and  I  looked  up  to  see  the  squad  of  soldiers  breaking  out  of  the  jungle. 
They  halted  before  the  government  bungalow  and  watched  my  ap- 
proach with  deep-set  grins.  The  sergeant,  understanding  my  gestures, 
offered  us  places  around  the  common  rice  heap.  I  returned  to  the 
rest-house  for  my  nether  garments.  The  villagers  were  driving  their 
panting  ducks  homeward.  The  Australian  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
we  waded  the  stream  once  more,  joining  the  soldiers  on  the  veranda 
of  the  government  bungalow.  Their  porters  brought  huge  wet  leaves 
to  protect  the  floor,  and  built  a  fire  within.  A  half-hour  later  the 
troopers  rose  to  their  feet  shouting,  "  Kin-kow !  Kin-kow !  "  easily 
understood  from  its  similarity  to  the  familiar  Chinese  word  "  chow," 
and  we  followed  them  into  the  smoke-choked  building.  In  a  civilized 
land  I  would  not  have  tasted  such  a  mess  as  was  spread  out  on  a 
banana  leaf  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  to  win  a  wager.  At  that  mo- 
ment it  seemed  a  repast  fit  for  an  epicure. 

We  slept  with  the  soldiers  in  the  telephone  bungalow.  James' 
fever  burned  itself  out  and  he  awoke  with  the  dawn  ready  to  push 
on.  For  the  first  few  miles  we  followed  a  path  below  the  telephone 
wire.  In  stumbling  over  the  uneven  ground  my  shoe-laces  broke  at 
frequent  intervals.  Well  on  in  the  morning  I  halted  to  replace  them 
with  stout  vines.  The  Australian  drew  on  ahead.  Before  I  had  over- 
taken him  the  path  forked  and  the  wire  disappeared  in  the  forest  be- 
tween the  diverging  routes.  I  hallooed  to  my  companion,  but  the  rain 
was  coming  down  in  torrents,  and  the  voice  does  not  carry  far  in  the 
jungle.  I  struck  into  one  of  the  paths;  but  in  a  very  few  minutes 
it  faded  and  was  lost.  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  trackless  wilder- 
ness. 

•Here  was  a  serious  mishap  indeed.  The  AustraHan  had  carried  off 
the   compass ;   our   money   was   in   my   bundle.     Separated   we   were 


434      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

equally  helpless,  and  what  chance  was  there  of  finding  each  other  again 
in  hundreds  of  miles  of  unblazed  wilds  ? 

I  set  a  course  by  the  sun  and  for  three  hours  fought  ray  way  up 
the  precipitous  face  of  a  mountain.  To  crash  and  roll  down  the  op- 
posite slope  required  less  than  a  third  of  that  time.  In  the  valley, 
tucked  away  under  soaring  teak  trees,  was  a  lonely  little  hut.  A  black- 
toothed  female  in  scanty  skirt  squatted  in  the  square  of  shade  under 
the  cabin,  pounding  rice  in  a  hollowed  log.  The  jungle  was  humming 
its  uncadenced  tune.  I  climbed  to  the  veranda  and  lay  down,  certain 
that  I  had  seen  the  last  of  James,  the  Australian. 

Under  the  hut  sounded  the  thump,  thump,  thump  of  the  pestle. 
What  exponents  of  the  "  simple  Hfe,"  of  which  we  hear  so  much  where 
it  does  not  exist,  are  these  jungle  dwellers  of  Siaml  They  are  as  in- 
dependent of  the  outside  world  as  their  neighbors,  the  apes,  in  the  tree- 
tops.  The  youthful  "  wild  man "  takes  his  mate  and  a  dah  and 
wanders  off  into  the  wilderness.  He  needs  nothing  else  to  win  a 
liyelihood  and  rear  a  family.  The  dah  is  a  long,  heavy  knife,  a  cross 
between  a  butcher's  cleaver  and  a  Cuban  machete.  It  is  the  one  and 
universal  tool  and  weapon  of  the  indigene  of  the  Malay  ranges.  With 
it  he  builds  his  house,  gathers  his  food,  and  defends  himself  against 
his  enemies.  His  dwelling  is  a  mere  human  nest,  as  truly  a  nest  as 
the  home  of  the  swallow  or  the  squirrel.  The  walls  are  of  bamboo, 
tied  together  with  vines  and  creepers;  the  floor,  of  split  bamboo;  the 
eight-foot  pillars  that  support  his  hut,  the  ladder  at  the  doorway,  the 
rafters,  are  all  of  the  same  material.  Attap  leaves  for  the  roof  grow 
everywhere.  Cocoanut  shells  do  duty  as  plates  and  cups;  a  joint  of 
the  omnipresent  bamboo  makes  a  light  and  handy  pitcher  or  pot.  To 
lay  up  a  stock  of  bananas  for  flood  time  is  the  work  of  a  few  hours ; 
a  few  yards  of  clearing  supplies  the  householder  rice  in  abundance. 
If  he  has  a  taste  for  "  fire-water,"  an  intoxicating  drink  can  be  made 
from  the  sap  of  the  palm  tree.  Two  loin-cloths  a  year  may  be  fash- 
ioned from  the  skin  of  an  animal  or  from  a  thick,  woolly  leaf  that  grows 
in  swampy  places.  Take  away  the  dah  and  there  is  nothing  that  is  not 
of  the  jungle,  save  one  import  from  the  outside  world  —  tobacco. 
The  "  wild  man  "  and  his  mate  are  inveterate  smokers. 

But  it  was  not  by  loafing  in  the  shade  that  I  should  beat  my  way 
through  to  civilization.  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  rearranged  my  "  swag." 
If  only  I  could  hire  a  guide.  Hark!  The  sound  of  a  human  voice 
came  faintly  to  my  ear.  No  doubt  the  owner  of  the  hut,  and  of  the 
slightly-clad   female,  was   returning  from  a  morning  expedition.     I 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        435 

listened  attentively.     Then  off  to  the  right  in  the  jungle  rang  out  a 
familiar  song:  — 

''  Oh,  I  long  to  see  my  dear  old  home  again, 
And  the  cottage  in  the  little  winding  lane. 
You  can  hear  the  birds  a-singing. 
And  pluck  the  roses  blooming; 
Oh,  I  long  to  see  my  old  home  again." 

It  was  the  Australian's  favorite  ballad.  I  shouted  at  the  top  of  my 
lungs,  and,  springing  to  the  ground  with  one  leap,  crashed  into  the 
jungle.  A  thicket  caught  me  in  its  sinewy  grasp.  I  tore  savagely  at 
the  entangling  branches.  The  voice  of  the  Australian  rang  out  once 
more :  — 

"Oh,  why  did  I  leave  my  little  back  room,  out  in  Bloomsburee? 
Where  I  could  live  on  a  quid  a  week,  in  such  luxuree.     .    .    ." 

He  was  further  away  now.  I  snatched  myself  loose  and  plunged 
on  after  him,  leaving  a  sleeve  of  my  jacket  in  the  thicket. 

"  Hello,  James !  Hello !  "  I  bellowed.  He  was  singing  with  a  vol- 
ume that  filled  his  ears.  I  opened  my  mouth  to  shout  again,  and  fell 
through  a  bush  into  a  clearly-marked  path.  Above  it  sagged  the  tele- 
phone wire  and  just  in  sight  through  the  overhanging  branches  plodded 
the  Australian. 

"  Gee,  but  you  're  slow,"  he  laughed,  when  I  had  overtaken  him. 

"  When  d'  you  find  the  path  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Have  n't  lost  it,"  he  answered.     "  Why  ?     Did  you  ?  " 

"  Have  n't  seen  it  for  five  hours,"  I  replied. 

"  Holy  dingoes ! "  he  gasped,  "  Thought  you  were  close  behind,  or 
I  'd  have  felt  mighty  little  like  singing." 

We  had  no  difficulty  in  keeping  to  the  route  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
and  passed  several  carriers  westward  bound.  With  never  a  hut  to 
raid,  we  fasted.  Yet  had  we  but  known  it  there  was  food  all  about 
us.  What  a  helpless  being  is  civilized  man  without  the  accessories  of 
civilization!  It  fell  to  uncouth  jungle  dwellers  to  bring  home  to  us 
our- own  ignorance. 

Weak  from  hunger,  we  had  halted  at  the  edge  of  a  mountain  stream 
well  on  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  were  overtaken  by  the  soldiers. 
They  had  packed  away  their  uniforms  and  wore  only  loin-cloths  and 
caps. 

"  Kin-kow  ?  Kin-kow  ?  "  cried  the  sergeant,  with  an  interrogatory 
gesture. 


436      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

We  nodded  sadly.  He  chuckled  to  himself  and  waved  his  arms 
about  him,  as  if  to  say  that  there  was  food  everywhere.  We  shrugged 
our  shoulders  skeptically.  He  laughed  like  a  man  prepared  to  prove 
his  point  and  addressed  himself  to  the  squad.  Two  of  the  soldiers 
picked  up  cudgels,  and,  returning  along  the  path  to  a  half-rotten  log, 
began  to  move  back  and  forth  on  opposite  sides  of  it,  striking  it  sharp 
blows  here  and  there.  They  came  back  with  a  half-dozen  lizards, 
those  great,  green  reptiles  that  sing  their  ''  she-kak !  "  all  night  long 
in  the  thatch  of  Indian  bungalows.  Meanwhile  two  others  of  the 
squad  were  kneeling  at  the  edge  of  a  mudhole.  From  time  to  time 
they  plunged  their  bare  arms  into  it,  drawing  out  frogs  and  dropping 
them,  still  alive,  into  a  joint  of  bamboo.  The  sergeant  took  a  dah  and 
cut  down  a  small  tree  at  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  A  servant  dug  some 
reddish-brown  roots  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  while  his 
mate  started  a  fire  by  rubbing  two  sticks  together. 

In  a  few  minutes  all  were  reassembled  beside  us.  The  lizards  were 
skinned,  cut  up  with  lumps  of  red  currie  in  an  iron  pot,  and  set  to 
boiling.  A  servant  drew  out  the  frogs  one  by  one,  struck  them  on  the 
head  with  a  stick,  and  tossed  them  to  his  companion.  The  latter 
rolled  them  up  inside  mud  balls  and  threw  them  into  the  fire.  The 
sergeant  split  open  his  tree,  extracted  a  pith  some  four  inches  in  diame- 
ter, cut  it  into  slices,  toasted  them  on  the  point  of  his  dah,  and 
tossed  them  onto  a  large  leaf  spread  out  at  our  feet.  The  reddish 
roots  were  beaten  to  a  pulp  on  the  face  of  the  rock  and  sprinkled  over 
the  toasted  slices.  Rice  was  boiled,  the  soldiers,  grinning  knowingly, 
took  up  their  refrain  of  "  kin-kow !  kin-kow ! "  and  the  meal  began. 
Before  it  was  finished,  both  the  jungle  and  its  inhabitants  had  risen 
several  degrees  in  our  estimation.  Extracted  from  their  shell  of  mud, 
the  frogs  were  found  to  be  baked  into  brown  balls,  and  tasted  not 
unlike  fried  fish.  The  toasted  pith  resembled  pickled  beets.  But  best 
of  all  was  the  lizard  currie.  James  and  I  ate  more  than  our  share,  and 
offered  mutual  condolence  that  the  pair  sent  to  pound  the  old  tree  trunk 
had  not  remained  longer  at  their  task. 

We  went  on  with  the  soldiers,  halting  soon  after  dark  at  the  bank 
of  the  largest  stream  we  had  yet  encountered.  There  was  no  village 
in  the  vicinity,  but  the  government  had  erected  a  military  rest-house 
on  the  bank.  In  this  we  spent  the  night  with  the  troopers,  after  par- 
taking of  a  frog  and  lizard  supper. 

Beyond,   the  territory  was   less  mountainous   and   the   path   well- 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA    •   437 

marked;  but  whatever  advantage  we  gained  thereby  was  offset  by  an- 
other difficulty.  The  river  beside  which  we  had  left  the  soldiers  was 
deep  and  swift,  and  wound  back  and  forth  across  our  course  with  a 
regularity  that  was  disheartening.  In  the  first  few  morning  hours  we 
swam  it  no  less  than  fourteen  times.  It  was  the  ninth  crossing  that 
we  had  cause  longest  to  remember.  Reaching  the  narrow,  sandy  bank 
a  bit  before  my  companion,  I  stripped,  and,  rolling  my  clothing  up  in 
the  oilcloth,  tied  the  bundle  to  my  head,  and  plunged  in.  James  be- 
gan to  disrobe  as  I  reached  the  opposite  shore.  Without  removing 
his  ragged  shirt,  or  his  helmet,  he  fastened  on  his  "  swag  "  as  I  had 
done,  and  struck  out.  Being  an  excellent  swimmer  he  advanced  with 
long,  clean  strokes.  Unfortunately  he  did  not  take  care  to  keep  his 
head  pointed  up-stream.  The  powerful  current  caught  him  suddenly 
broadside,  dragged  him  under,  and  dashed  him  against  a  submerged 
snag.  He  righted  himself  quickly,  but  in  that  brief  struggle  lost  both 
his  bundle  and  his  helmet,  and  in  an  effort  to  save  both  caught  only 
the  topee.  The  "  swag "  raced  down  stream.  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
and  dashed  along  the  sandy  shore  in  hot  pursuit.  The  stream  was 
far  swifter  than  I.  The  tangled  undergrowth  brought  me  to  a  sudden 
halt,  and  the  Australian's  worldly  possessions  were  swallowed  up  in 
the  jungle. 

I  returned  to  find  him  sitting  disconsolately  on  the  bank.  Luckily 
there  was  but  one  tecal  in  his  bundle,  but  with  it  had  gone  his  shoes, 
trousers,  jacket,  the  odds  and  ends  he  had  picked  up  on  his  travels, 
his  military  and  citizenship  papers,  the  pocket  compass,  and  even  that 
bottle  of  "  Superior  Currie  Dressing " ;  in  short,  everything  he  pos- 
sessed except  a  helmet  and  a  tattered  shirt. 

But  James  was  not  a  man  to  be  long  cast  down  by  minor  misfortunes. 
He  tied  the  shirt  about  his  loins  and  we  proceeded.  Relieved  of  his 
burden,  he  marched  more  easily  and  crossed  the  streams  with  far  less, 
difficulty  than  I.  But  in  less  than  an  hour  his  shoulders,  back,  and 
legs  were  painted  a  fiery  red  by  the  implacable  sun ;  and  the  stones  and 
jagged  brambles  tore  and  bruised  his  feet  until  he  left  a  blood  stain 
at  every  step. 

We  were  again  overtaken  by  the  soldiers  about  noonday  and  halted 
for  another  jungle  meal.  Off  once  more,  we  forged  ahead  for  a  time, 
but  found  it  prudent  to  wait  for  the  troopers  to  lead  the  way ;  for 
the  route  was  beset  with  unexpected  pitfalls.  As  once,  in  fighting 
our  way  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  we  crashed  headlong  through  the 


438    •  A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

bushes  into  the  dry,  stony  bed  of  a  tributary  —  fifteen  feet  below. 
This  mishap  left  little  of  my  clothing,  and  gave  the  Australian  the 
appearance  of  a  modern  Saint  Sebastian. 

A  wider  path  began  where  we  rejoined  the  soldiers.  The  higher 
mountain  ranges  fell  away;  but  if  the  foothills  were  less  lofty  they 
were  as  steep,  and  the  slopes  were  often  clear  of  vegetation  and  reek- 
ing in  mud.  At  the  top  of  such  a  ridge  we  overtook  an  equine  caravan 
returning  from  some  village  oil  to  the  southwest.  Burdened  with 
huge  pack  saddles,  the  horses  began  the  perilous  descent  reluctantly. 
Suddenly  three  of  them  lost  their  footing,  sat  down  on  their  haunches, 
and  rolled  over  and  over,  their  packs  flying  in  every  direction.  James 
laughed  loudly  and  slapped  me  on  the  back.  The  blow  disturbed  my 
equilibrium.  My  feet  shot  from  under  me,  and,  slipping,  sliding,  roll- 
ing, clutching  in  vain  for  support,  I  pitched  down  the  five-hundred 
yard  slope  and  splashed  headfirst  into  a  muddy  stream  at  the  bottom 
several  seconds  in  advance  of  the  horses. 

Another  mile  left  me  barefooted  and  nearly  as  naked  as  my  compan- 
ion. Now  and  again  we  overtook  a  band  of  Laos  carriers,  once  a  young 
Buddhist  priest  in  tattered  yellow,  attended  by  two  servants.  We  had 
seen  him  somewhere  a  day  or  two  before  and  remembered  him  not 
only  by  his  garb  but  on  account  of  the  licentious  cast  of  his  coarse 
features.  He  joined  our  party  uninvited  and  tramped  along  with  us, 
puffing  at  a  long  saybully  and  chattering  volubly.  The  soldiers  greeted 
his  sallies  with  roars  of  laughter  and  winked  at  us  in  a  way  to  sug- 
gest that  the  tales  he  told  would  have  made  the  efforts  of  Boccaccio 
seem  Sunday-school  stories.  We  deplored  more  than  ever  our  igno- 
rance of  the  Siamese  tongue. 

James  was  protesting  that  he  could  not  continue  another  yard  when 
we  came  most  unexpectedly  to  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  Before  us 
stretched  a  vast  paddy  field,  deeply  inundated.  The  soldiers  led  the 
way  along  the  tops  of  the  ridges  toward  a  dense  grove  two  miles 
distant.  The  howling  of  a  hundred  curs  heralded  our  approach,  and 
as  many  chattering  humans  swarmed  about  us  when  we  paused  in  a 
large,  deep-shaded  village  at  the  edge  of  a  river  fully  a  mile  wide.  It 
could  be  no  other  than  the  Menan  Chow  Pya  —  the  "  great  river  " 
of  Siam.  Along  the  low  eastern  bank  stretched  a  veritable  city  with 
white,  two-story  buildings,  before  which  were  anchored  large  native 
junks.  It  was  Rehang.  The  soldiers  told  us  so  with  shouts  of  joy 
and  ran  away  to  don  their  uniforms. 

We  threw  off  what  was  left  of  our  garments  and  plunged  into  the 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       439 

stream  to  wash  off  the  blood  and  grime  of  the  jungle.  When  we  had 
prepared  ourselves  for  entrance  into  civilization  the  soldiers  were 
gone.  We  appealed  to  the  villagers  to  set  us  across  the  river.  They 
refused.  We  took  possession  of  one  of  a  dozen  dugHDut  logs  drawn 
up  along  the  shore,  and  the  village  swarmed  down  upon  us  in  a  great 
avalanche  of  men,  women,  children,  and  yellow  curs.  We  caught  up 
two  paddles  and  laid  about  us.     In  two  minutes  we  were  alone. 

We  pushed  the  dug-out  into  the  stream  and  were  climbing  in  when 
two  ugly,  wrinkled  females  ran  down  the  bank  and  offered  to  ferry 
us  across.  They  pointed  the  craft  up-stream  and  fell  to  paddling, 
their  flabby  breasts  beating  against  their  paunches  with  every  stroke, 
their  bony  knees  rising  and  falling  regularly.  They  were  expert 
water  dogs,  however,  and  crossed  the  swift  stream  without  mishap, 
landing  us  at  a  crazy  wooden  wharf  in  the  center  of  the  town. 

In  every  published  map  of  Siam  you  will  find  Rehang  noted  — 
somewhere  within  a  hundred  miles  of  its  actual  situation.  Not  that 
the  city  deserves  such  distinction.  The  geographer  must  have  some 
name  to  fill  in  this  vast  space  on  his  chart  or  he  lays  himself  open  to 
a  charge  of  ignorance.  On  nearer  sight  the  white,  two-story  build- 
ings were  rather  pathetic,  dilapidated  structures.  The  avenue  be- 
tween them  was  not  much  better  paved  than  the  jungle  paths,  and 
deeper  in  mud.  The  sanitary  squad,  evidently,  had  not  yet  returned 
from  an  extended  vacation.  Here  and  there  a  dead  cat  or  dog  had 
been  tossed  out  to  be  trampled  under  foot.  There  was  no  dearth  of 
inhabitants ;  one  could  not  but  wonder  how  the  town  could  house  such 
a  population.  But  the  passing  throng  was  merely  a  larger  gathering 
of  those  same  uncouth  "  wild  men  "  of  the  jungle  villages.  The  fear 
of  being  arrested  for  unseemly  exposure  soon  left  us.  James,  in 
national  costume,  attracted  much  less  attention  than  I,  in  the  remnants 
of  jacket  and  trousers. 

Just  one  advance  agent  of  modern  civilization  had  reached  Rehang. 
Bill  posters  had  decorated  several  blank  walls  with  huge  lithographs 
announcing,  in  Siamese  letters  a  foot  high,  the  merits  of  a  well-known 
sewing  machine.  That  we  had  expected,  of  course.  In  the  back 
waters  of  modern  progress  are  a  few  hamlets  where  Milwaukee  beer  is 
unknown,  but  the  traveler  who  extends  his  explorations  so  far  into  the 
wilds  as  to  discover  a  community  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  the 
American  sewing  machine  merits  decoration  by  the  Royal  Geographical 
Society. 

It  was  easy,  however,  to  overlook  the  backwardness  of  this  tumble- 


440      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

down  thorp  on  the  banks  of  the  Menan ;  at  least  it  was  a  market  town. 
James  dashed  into  the  first  booth  with  a  whoop  of  deHght  and  startled 
the  keeper  out  of  his  wits  by  demanding  a  whole  three  cents'  worth  of 
cigarettes.  Saybullies  might  do  well  enough  as  a  last  resort,  but  the 
Australian  did  not  propose  to  be  reduced  to  such  extremities  again. 
He  splashed  on  through  the  reeking  streets  blowing  great  clouds  of 
smoke  from  his  nostrils  and  forgetting  for  the  time  even  the  smart- 
ing of  his  torn  and  sun-scorched  skin. 

Half  the  merchants  of  the  town  were  Chinamen.  We  stopped  at  a 
shop  kept  by  three  wearers  of  the  pig-tail  and,  dragging  a  bench  into 
the  center  of  the  room,  called  for  food.  One  of  the  keepers,  moving 
as  if  he  deeply  resented  our  intrusion,  set  canned  meat  before  us,  and 
brought  us  as  a  can-opener,  after  long  delay,  a  hatchet  with  a  blade 
considerably  wider  than  the  largest  tin. 

When  we  rose  to  depart,  the  Celestials  quickly  lost  their  apathy.  They 
demanded  ten  tecals.  I  gave  them  two.  The  market  price  of  the  stuff 
was  certainly  not  over  a  half  of  that  sum.  A  triple  scream  rent  the 
air  and  a  half-dozen  Monguls  bounded  into  the  shop  and  danced  like 
ogres  about  us.  One  caught  up  the  hatchet  and  swung  it  high  above 
his  head.  James  snatched  it  from  him,  kicked  him  across  the  room, 
and  threw  the  weapon  among  the  heaped-up  wares.  We  fought  our 
way  to  the  street.  The  keeper  nearest  us  gave  one  stentorian  bellow 
that  was  answered  from  every  side.  Chinamen  tumbled  out  through 
every  open  doorway,  out  of  every  hole  in  the  surrounding  shop  walls ; 
they  sprang  up  from  under  the  buildings,  dropped  from  the  low  roofs, 
swarmed  out  of  the  alleyways,  for  all  the  world  like  rats ;  screaming, 
yelping,  snarling,  clawing  the  air  as  they  ran,  their  cues  streaming  be- 
hind them.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  mob  at  our  heels  had  in- 
creased to  a  hundred.  We  refused  to  sacrifice  our  dignity  by  running. 
The  frenzied  Celestials  scratched  us  savagely  with  their  overgrown  fin- 
ger nails,  caught  at  our  legs,  spattered  us  with  mud.  Not  one  of  them 
used  his  fists.  When  we  turned  upon  them  they  recoiled  as  from  a 
squad  of  cavalry  and  we  could  retaliate  only  by  catching  a  flying  pig- 
tail in  either  hand  to  send  a  pair  of  yellow-skinned  rascals  sprawling 
in  the  mud.  They  came  back  at  us  after  every  stand  before  we  had 
taken  a  dozen  steps.  Our  backs  were  a  network  of  finger-nail 
scratches.  We  cast  our  eyes  about  us  for  some  weapon  and  found  two 
bemired  sticks.  Before  we  could  use  them  our  assailants  turned  and 
fled,  still  screaming  at  the  top  of  their  lungs. 

Not  far  beyond,  we  turned  in  at  the  largest  edifice  in  the  town  —  the 


I^R^^, 

1 

B*- 

r| 

^^^^^^^^'t'-^LM^^^HH^BS^KiF>v. 

^ 

m. 

■   -1 

1 

■p!.^       - 

r 

;^r' 

jf^, 

^^^■^...:::- 

^^ 

Ip^ 

^^-"1^^^' 

:.      '■*»|%^^p|« 

%    "^^' 

, «  - 

K%v  ^V#^%>»lV'' 

^^^''■M^^M 

^^' 

-.^ 

The  sort  of  jungle  through  which  we  cut  our  way  for  three  weeks.     Gerald 
James,  my  Australian  companion,   in   the   foreground 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA       441 

Rehang  barracks.  Among  the  half-hundred  little  brown  soldiers  loung- 
ing about  the  entrance  were  our  intermittent  comrades  of  the  few  days 
past.  It  was  plain  that  they  had  told  our  story.  The  recruits  gath- 
ered about  us,  laughing  and  plying  pantomimic  questions.  How  had  we 
liked  lizard  currie?  What  had  turned  our  dainty  skins  so  blood  red? 
What  ignorant  and  helpless  beings  were  white  men,  were  they  not? 

Suddenly,  amid  the  general  chatter,  I  caught  a  hint  that  there  was  a 
European  on  the  floor  above.  We  sprang  towards  the  stairway  at  the 
end  of  the  veranda.  The  soldiers  shrieked  in  dismay  and  snatched  at 
our  rags.  We  must  not  go  up;  it  was  contrary  to  stringent  barrack 
rules.  A  guardsman  on  duty  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  held  his  musket 
out  horizontally  and  shouted  a  tremulous  command.  James  caught 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  sent  him  spinning  along  the  veranda.  We 
dashed  up  the  steps.  Two  doors  stood  ajar.  James  sprang  to  one 
while  I  pushed  open  the  other. 

*' Hello!"  I  shouted,  "Where's  the  white—" 

A  triumphant  roar  from  my  companion  sent  me  hurrying  after  him. 
He  was  dancing  gleefully  just  inside  the  second  door,  and  shaking  a 
white  man  ferociously  by  the  hand,  an  astonished  white  man  in  khaki 
uniform  with  officer's  stripes.  I  reminded  the  Australian  of  his  cos- 
tume and  he  subsided.  The  European  invited  us  inside  and  sent  a 
servant  for  tea,  biscuits  and  cigars.  Our  host  was  commander  of  the 
Rehang  garrison  —  a  Dane,  but  with  a  fluent  command  of  English. 
That  we  had  been  wandering  through  the  jungle  was  all  too  evident ;  but 
that  we  had  come  overland  from  Burma  was  a  tale  he  would  not  credit 
until  the  sergeant  had  been  called  in  to  confirm  our  assertions.  For- 
getting his  military  duties,  the  commander  plied  us  with  wondering 
questions  until  dusk  fell,  and  then  ordered  three  of  the  newly-arrived 
squad  to  arrange  for  our  accommodation. 

The  sergeant,  plainly  overawed  at  finding  us  on  such  intimate  terms 
with  his  dreaded  chief,  led  the  way  through  the  barracks.  The  gar- 
rison grounds  were  extensive.  Within  the  inclosure  was  a  Buddhist 
monastery,  resembling,  if  less  pretentious  than,  the  Tavoy  of  Ran- 
goon. Here  were  the  same  irregular  patches  of  untilled  ground,  where 
priests  wandered  and  chattered  in  the  twilight;  the  same  disorderly 
array  of  gaudy  temples,  gay  little  pagodas  with  tinkling  silver  bells, 
and  frail  priestly  dwellings. 

On  the  veranda  of  one  of  the  latter  the  soldiers  spread  a  pair  of 
army  blankets.  We  were  for  turning  in  at  once.  Our  seneschals 
would  not  hear  of  it.     For  a  half-hour  they  trotted  back  and  forth 


442      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

between  our  bungalow  and  that  of  the  commander,  bearing  steaming 
dishes.  The  little  table  they  had  set  up  was  groaning  under  its  bur- 
den before  the  sergeant  signed  to  us  to  begin.  There  was  broiled  fish, 
a  mutton  roast,  a  great  steak,  a  spitted  fowl,  fruits  and  vegetables  of 
astounding  variety  and  quantity.  The  sergeant  laughed  aloud  at  our 
astonishment  when  he  drew  out  a  pair  of  knives  and  forks  from  his 
pocket.  Then  he  tapped  his  head  meditatively  with  a  skinny  finger 
and  ran  off  again  into  the  night.  He  came  back  with  a  box  of  cigars 
and  a  quart  bottle  of  whiskey ! 

Neither  of  us  being  particularly  addicted  to  the  use  of  fire-water, 
we  wet  our  whistles  and  fell  upon  the  fish.  When  I  looked  up  again, 
the  sergeant  was  watching  me  with  the  fixed  stare  of  a  half-starved 
cat. 

"  Kin-kow  ?  "  I  asked,  pointing  at  the  steak. 

The  trooper  shook  his  head  almost  fiercely. 

"  Try  him  on  the  gasoline,"  suggested  James. 

I  poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  held  it  out  to  him.  In  ac- 
cordance with  Oriental  etiquette,  he  refused  it  seven  times  with  a 
pained  expression.  At  the  eighth  ofiFer  he  smiled  nervously.  At 
the  ninth  he  raised  his  hand  hesitatingly  and  dropped  it  again.  At  the 
tenth  he  took  the  glass  gingerly  between  his  slim  fingers,  eyed  it 
askance,  tasted  the  liquor  half  fearfully,  smacked  his  lips,  gulped  down 
a  liberal  half  of  the  potion,  and  handed  the  glass  to  the  privates  be- 
hind him. 

The  mutton  roast  engrossed  our  attention.  When  it  was  finished, 
I  found  the  officer  grinning  down  upon  me.  I  filled  the  glass  again. 
He  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  in  the  beginning  of  a  shake  and  kept 
it  there.  His  refusals  had  lost  force.  With  the  third  glass  there  was 
no  refusal.  The  fourth  he  poured  out  for  himself.  By  the  time  we 
were  picking  the  chicken  bones,  the  three  warriors  were  dancing  glee- 
fully about  us.  We  sat  down  on  the  blanket  for  a  smoke.  The  ser- 
geant, shrieking  his  undying  affection,  threw  himself  down  between  us 
and  began  to  embrace  us  in  turn.  When  we  kicked  him  oflf  the  veranda 
he  locked  arms  with  the  privates  and  waltzed  away  across  the  parade- 
ground,  screaming  a  high-pitched  native  song  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 
The  quart  bottle  stood  on  the  table  —  empty. 

We  spent  the  night  on  the  veranda.  We  did  not  sleep  there.  Our 
sun-scorched  skins  would  not  permit  it;  even  had  they  burned  less 
fiercely,  we  could  not  have  slept.  One  would  have  fancied  the  mon- 
astery a  gigantic  hen  yard,  with  the  priests  transformed  into  chan- 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  THE  MALAY  PENINSULA        443 

ticleers  during  the  hours  of  darkness.  After  every  shower  the  un- 
veiled moon  was  greeted  with  a  din  of  crowing  that  was  nothing 
short  of  infernal.  In  the  brief  respite  each  gathering  storm  brought 
us,  we  tossed  about  wide-awake  on  our  asperous  couch,  listening  to  the 
symphonic  tinkling  of  the  pagoda  bells. 

With  dawn  came  a  summons  from  the  Dane.  We  hurried  to  his 
bungalow  and  joined  him  at  breakfast.  He  had  gathered  together 
two  pairs  of  shoes  and  four  khaki  uniforms.  They  were  from  his 
own  tailor  in  Bangkok,  still  very  serviceable,  though  fitting  us  a  bit 
too  snugly,  and  chafing  our  blistered  skins.  Rolling  up  the  extra 
garments  and  swinging  them  over  our  shoulders,  we  bade  our  host  fare- 
well. As  we  left  the  garrison  inclosure  we  came  upon  the  sergeant, 
sitting  on  the  ground,  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin,  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands  —  a  very  personification  of  the  baneful  morning  after. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM 

THE  route  to  Bangkok,  such  as  it  was,  lay  on  the  eastern  bank 
of  the  Menam.  This  time  we  crossed  the  stream  by  the  offi- 
cial ferry,  a  dug-out  canoe  fully  thirty  feet  long,  which  held, 
besides  ourselves  and  four  paddlers,  twenty-two  natives,  chiefly  of 
the  gentle  sex.  All  day  we  tramped  through  jungle  as  wild  as  that 
to  the  westward,  following  the  course  of  the  river.  Bamboo  villages 
were  numerous  and  for  every  hut  at  least  a  half-dozen,  mangy,  yellow 
curs  added  their  yelping  to  the  uproar  that  heralded  our  approach. 
We  cooked  our  food  where  we  chose  and  paid  for  it  when  we  had 
eaten.  The  inhabitants  were  indolent  "  wild  men  "  like  those  of  the 
mountains,  content  to  live  and  die  in  their  nests  of  jungle  rubbish,  with 
a  dirty  rag  about  their  loins.  Occasionally  a  family  ran  away  into 
the  forest  when  we  took  possession  of  their  abode.  More  often  they 
remained  where  we  found  them,  squatting  on  the  floor,  and  watched 
our  culinary  dexterity  with  lack-luster  eyes.  Except  for  their  breasts, 
there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  the  women  from  the  men.  Both  sexes 
wore  their  dull,  black  hair  some  two  inches  long  and  dressed  it  in  a 
bristling  pompadour  that  gave  them  a  resemblance  to  startled  porcu- 
pines. Both  had  jet-black  teeth.  The  younger  children  were  robust 
little  animals;  the  older,  ungainly  creatures  with  overgrown  bellies. 

Chief  of  the  obstacles  to  our  progress  were  the  tributaries  of  the 
Menam  Chow  Pya.  Sometimes  they  were  swift  and  deep.  Then 
we  had  only  to  strip  and  swim  them,  our  bundles  slung  around  our 
heads.  What  we  dreaded  more  were  the  sluggish  streams,  through 
which  we  must  wade  waist  deep  in  black,  foul-smelling  slush  or  half- 
acres  of  nauseating  green  slime,  cesspools  that  seemed  designed  to 
harbor  poisonous  snakes.  Once  we  dispaired  for  a  time  of  continuing 
our  way.  We  had  been  halted  by  a  stagnant  rivulet  more  than  a 
furlong  wide,  too  deep  to  be  waded,  too  thickly  covered  with  stewing 
slime  to  be  swum.  We  wandered  back  along  it  for  some  distance. 
No  stream  could  have  been  less  fitting  a  scene  for  romance.  Yet  what 
was  our  surprise  to  find,  where  the  green  scum  was  thickest,  an  old 
dug-out  scow,  half  roofed  with  attap  leaves,  anchored  to  a  snag  equi- 

444 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  445 

distant  from  either  shore;  and  in  it  that  same  youthful  priest  of  our 
mountain  tramp,  engrossed  in  the  entertainment  of  as  comely  a 
female  as  one  could  have  run  to  earth  in  the  length  and  breadth  of 
these  Siamese  wilds.  We  half  suspected  that  he  would  resent  being 
disturbed.  At  sight  of  the  scowling  face  that  he  raised  when  we  hal- 
looed to  him  we  were  sure  of  it. 

Still  we  could  not  halt  where  we  were  merely  out  of  respect  for 
romance.  We  beckoned  to  him  to  paddle  ashore  and  set  us*  across. 
He  refused  and  snarled  back  at  us.  We  picked  up  the  stoutest  clubs 
at  hand  and  shook  them  at  him.  He  laughed  scornfully.  I  threw  my 
weapon  at  the  craft.  It  struck  the  roof  and  went  through  it.  The 
priest  sprang  up  with  a  whine,  slipped  his  mooring,  and,  twisting  his 
face  into  an  ugly  grin  of  feigned  amiability,  paddled  slowly  towards 
us.  We  sprang  into  the  scow  and  five  minutes  later  were  plunging 
through  the  jungle  beyond. 

The  sun  was  still  well  above  the  horizon  when  we  reached  Kung 
Chow.  The  Dane  had  told  us  it  was  twenty-two  miles  from  Rehang. 
Kung  Chow  was  no  ordinary  jungle  village.  It  consisted  of  a  bunga- 
low of  unusual  magnificence,  set  in  the  center  of  a  clearing  on  the  bank 
of  the  Menam,  with  a  half-circle  of  smaller  dwellings  round  about  and 
at  a  respectful  distance  from  it.  The  main  building  was  the  residence 
of  the  "  jungle  king  " ;  the  smaller  housed  his  servants  and  retainers. 

Of  this  royal  person  we  had  heard  much  at  breakfast  that  morning. 
To  the  commander  of  Rehang  he  was  "  almost  a  fellow  countryman," 
as  he  hailed  from  Sweden.  For  many  years  he  had  been  stationed  at 
Kung  Chow  as  manager  of  a  company  that  is  exploiting  the  teak 
forests,  and  the  style  in  which  he  lived  in  spite  of  his  isolation  had 
won  him  his  sobriquet. 

We  found  him  sitting  in  state  on  the  veranda  of  his  palace,  gazing 
serenely  out  across  the  clearing.  The  servants  that  hovered  about 
him  looked  like  ludicrous  little  manikins  in  his  presence,  for  he  would 
have  tipped  the  scales  at  perilously  near  a  quarter-ton.  The  unruffled 
mien  with  which  he  noted  our  arrival  bespoke  a  truly  regal  poise. 
We  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  and  craved  the  boon  of  a  drink 
of  water.  Judging  from  the  calm  wave  of  the  hand  with  which  the 
**  king  "  ordered  a  vassal  to  fetch  it,  one  would  have  supposed  that 
white  men  passed  his  palace  every  hour.  He  watched  us  silently  as 
we  quenched  our  thirst.  There  was  no  tremor  of  excitement  in  the 
voice  in  which  he  asked  our  nationality  and  destination,  and  he  in- 
quired no  further. 


446      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  I  can  put  a  bungalow  at  your  disposal/'  he  said,  "  if  you  had 
planned  on  stopping  here." 

We  were  of  half  a  mind  to  push  on.  It  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  we  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  being  received 
with  open  arms  by  Europeans  that  we  were  a  bit  disgruntled  at  his 
impassionate  demeanor.  In  the  end  we  swallowed  our  pride  and 
thanked  him  for  the  offer.  That  decision  turned  out  to  be  the  most 
fortunate  of  all  the  days  of  our  partnership. 

The  "  king  "  waved  a  hand  once  more  and  a  henchman  in  scarlet 
livery  stepped  forth  and  led  us  to  one  of  the  half-circle  of  bungalows. 
It  was  a  goodly  dwelling,  as  dwellings  go,  up  along  the  Menam.  Five 
servants  were  detailed  to  attend  us.  They  prepared  two  English  tub- 
baths  and  stood  ready  with  crash  towels  to  rub  us  down.  The  condi- 
tion of  our  skins  forced  us  to  dispense  with  that  service.  When  we 
had  changed  our  garments  a  laundryman  took  charge  of  those  we  had 
worn.  By  this  time,  a  servant  had  brought  a  phonograph  from  the 
palace  and  set  it  in  action.  The  phonograph  is  not  a  perfected  in- 
strument; but  even  its  tunes  are  soothing  when  one  has  heard 
nothing  approaching  music  for  weeks  except  the  ballads  sung  by 
a  crack-voiced  Australian  or  the  no  less  symphonic  croaking  of 
lizards. 

Then  came  our  evening  banquet.  For  days  afterwards  James  could 
not  speak  of  that  without  a  tremor  in  his  voice.  The  supper  of  the 
night  before  was  a  free  lunch  in  a  Clark  street  "  slop's  house  "  in 
comparison.  Least  of  the  wonders  that  arrived  from  the  storehouse 
of  his  jungle  majesty  was  a  box  of  fifty  fat  Habana  cigars  and  a 
dozen  bottles  of  imported  beer;  ice  cold  in  these  sweltering  tropics. 

We  had  just  settled  down  for  an  evening  chat  when  a  sudden  vio- 
lent hubbub  burst  forth.  I  dashed  out  upon  the  veranda.  Around 
the  palace  fluttered  half  the  population  of  Kung  Chow,  squawking 
like  excited  hens;  and  the  others  were  tumbling  out  of  their  bunga- 
lows in  their  haste  to  add  to  the  uproar. 

The  royal  residence  was  afire.  From  the  back  of  the  building  a 
shaft  of  black  smoke  wavered  upward  in  the  evening  breeze.  When 
we  pushed  through  the  panic-stricken  throng,  a  slim  blaze  was  licking 
at  a  corner  of  the  back  veranda.  Its  origin  was  not  hard  to  guess. 
At  the  foot  of  the  supporting  bamboo  pillar  lay  a  sputtering  kettle 
over  a  heap  of  charred  fagots.  Around  it  the  natives  were  screaming, 
pushing,  tumbling  over  each  other ;  doing  everything,  in  fact,  but  what 
the  emergency  called  for.     A  dozen  of  them  carried  buckets.     Twenty 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  447 

yards  away  was  a  stream.  But  they  were  as  helpless  as  stampeded 
sheep. 

James  snatched  a  bucket  and  ran  for  the  creek.  I  caught  up  the 
tilting  kettle  and  dumped  its  contents  of  half-boiled  rice  on  the  blaze. 
With  the  Australian's  first  bucketful  we  had  the  conflagration  under 
control  and  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment  to  put  it  out  entirely. 
When  the  last  ember  had  ceased  to  glow,  the  first  native  arrived  with 
water  from  the  stream.  Behind  him  stretched  a  long  line  of  servants 
with  overflowing  buckets.  They  fought  with  each  other  in  their 
eagerness  to  deluge  the  charred  corner  of  the  veranda.  Those  who 
could  not  reach  it  dashed  their-  water  on  the  surrounding  multitude, 
and  the  real  firemen;  then  ran  for  more.  We  were  forced  to  resort 
to  violence  to  save  ourselves  from  drowning. 

As  the  last  native  was  fleeing  across  the  clearing,  I  looked  up  to 
see  "  his  majesty  "  gazing  down  upon  us.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  ex- 
citement in  the  entire  rotundity  of  his  figure. 

"  These  wild  men  are  a  useless  lot  of  animals,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  glad 
you  turned  out."     Then  he  waddled  back  into  his  palace. 

We  returned  to  our  bungalow  and  started  the  phonograph  anew. 
Fully  an  hour  afterward  the  "  king  "  walked  in  upon  us.  He  carried 
what  looked  like  a  great  sausage,  wrapped  in  thick,  brown  paper. 

"  I  'm  always  glad  to  help  a  white  man,"  he  panted,  "  especially 
when  he  has  done  me  a  service." 

I  took  the  parcel  in  one  hand  and  nearly  lost  my  balance  as  he 
let  it  go.  It  weighed  several  pounds.  By  the  time  I  had  recovered 
my  equilibrium  **  his  majesty  "  was  gone.  I  sat  down  and  unrolled  the 
package.     It  contained  fifty  silver  tecals. 

Our  second  day  down  the  Menam  was  enlivened  by  one  adventure. 
About  noonday,  we  had  cooked  our  food  in  one  of  the  huts  of  a  good- 
sized  village  and  paid  for  it  by  no  means  illiberally.  Outside  the 
shack  we  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  six  "  wild  men  "  of  unusually 
angry  and  determined  appearance.  Five  of  them  carried  dahs,  the 
sixth,  a  long,  clumsy  musket.  While  the  others  danced  about  us,  wav- 
ing their  knives,  the  latter  stopped  three  paces  away,  raised  his  gun, 
and  took  deliberate  aim  at  my  chest.  The  gleam  in  his  eye  suggested 
that  he  was  not  "  bluffing."  I  sprang  to  one  side  and  threw  the  cocoa- 
nut  I  was  carrying  in  one  hand  hard  at  him.  It  struck  him  on  the  jaw 
below  the  ear.  His  scream  sounded  like  a  factory  whistle  in  the 
wilderness  and  he  put  oflF  into  the  jungle  as  fast  as  his  thin  legs  could 
carry  him,  his  companions  shrieking  at  his  heels. 


448      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  When  you  are  attacked  by  an  Oriental  mob,"  the  Dane  had  said, 
"  hurt  one  of  them,  and  hurt  him  quick.     That 's  all  that 's  needed." 

Miles  beyond,  as  we  reposed  in  a  tangled  thicket,  a  crashing  of 
underbrush  brought  us  anxiously  to  our  feet.  We  peered  out  through 
the  interwoven  branches.  An  elephant,  with  a  mahout  dozing  on  his 
head,  was  advancing  towards  us.  Behind  him  came  another  and  an- 
other of  the  bulky  animals,  fifteen  in  all,  some  with  armed  men  on 
their  backs,  others  bearing  a  small  carload  of  baggage.  We  stepped 
out  of  our  hiding  place  in  time  to  meet  the  chief  of  the  caravan,  who 
rode  between  the  seventh  and  eighth  elephants  on  a  stout-limbed  pony. 
He  was  an  Englishman,  agent  of  the  Bombay-Burma  Lumber  Com- 
pany, and  had  spent  fifteen  years  in  wandering  through  the'  teak 
forests  of  Siam.  Never  before,  he  asserted,  had  he  known  a  whites 
man  to  cross  the  peninsula  unarmed  and  unescorted.  For  a  time  he 
was  convinced  that  we  were  playing  a  practical  joke  on  him  and  had 
hidden  our  porters  and  guns  away  in  the  jungle.  Disabused  of  that 
idea,  he  warned  us  to  beware  the  territory  beyond,  asserting  that  he 
had  killed  two  tigers  and  a  murderous  outlaw  within  the  past  week. 

"  I  shall  pitch  my  camp  a  few  miles  from  here,"  he  concluded. 
"  You  had  better  turn  back  and  spend  the  night  with  me.  It 's  all  of 
thirty  miles  from  Kung  Chow  to  here,  more  than  enough  for  one  day." 

We  declined  the  offer,  having  no  desire  to  cover  the  same  territory 
thrice.  The  Englishman  wrote  us  a  letter  of  introduction  to  his  sub- 
agent  in  the  next  village,  and,  as  that  hamlet  was  some  distance  off, 
we  took  our  leave  at  once. 

For  miles  we  struggled  on  through  the  tangle  of  vegetation  without 
encountering  a  sign  of  the  hand  of  man.  The  shadows  lengthened 
eastward,  twilight  fell  and  thickened  to  darkness.  To  travel  by  night 
in  this  jungle  country  is  utterly  impossible.  We  paid  for  our  attempt 
to  do  so  by  losing  our  way  and  sinking  to  our  knees  in  a  slimy  swamp. 
When  we  had  dragged  ourselves  to  more  solid  ground,  all  sense  of 
direction  was  gone.  With  raging  thirst  and  gnawing  hunger  we  threw 
ourselves  down  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness.  The  ground  was 
soft  and  wet.  In  ten  minutes  we  had  sunk  half  out  of  sight.  I 
pulled  my  "  swag "  loose  and  rolled  over  to  another  spot.  It  was 
softer  and  wetter  than  the  one  I  had  left. 

"Hark!"  murmured  James  suddenly.  **  Is  that  a  dog  barking? 
Perhaps  there  's  a  village  near." 

We  listened  intently,  breathlessly.  A  far-off  howl  sounded  above 
the  droning  of  the  jungle.     Possibly  some  dog  was  baying  the  faint 


"An  elephant,  with  a  mahout  dozing  on  his  head,  was  advancing  toward  us" 


Myself  after  four  days  in  the  jungle,  and  the  Siamese  soldiers  with  whom  we  fell 
in  now  and  then  between  Myawadi  and  Rehang.     I  had  sold  my  helmet 


i 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  449 

I  face  of  the  moon.  There  was  an  equal  possibiHty  that  we  had  heard 
the  roar  of  some  beast  abroad  in  quest  of  prey.  "  Tigers  abound,"  the 
Enghshman  had  said.  So  must  snakes  in  this  reptile-breeding  under- 
growth. A  crackling  of  twigs  close  beside  me  sent  an  electric  shock 
along  my  spine.  I  opened  my  mouth  to  call  to  James.  He  for- 
stalled  me. 

"  Hello !  "  he  whispered.  "  Say,  I  '11  get  a  fever  if  I  sleep  in  this 
mud.     Let 's  try  that  big  tree  there." 

It  was  a  gigantic  growth  for  the  tropics.  The  lowest  of  its  wide- 
spreading  branches  the  Australian  could  reach  from  my  shoulders. 
He  pulled  me  up  after  him  and  we  climbed  higher.  I  sat  down  astride 
a  great  limb,  tied  my  bundle  above  me,  and,  leaning  against  the  trunk, 
sank  into  a  doze. 

I  was  aroused  by  a  blow  in  the  ribs. 

"  Quit  it ! "  cried  James  angrily,  thumping  me  again,  "  What  the 
deuce  are  you  tearing  my  clothes  off  for  ?  " 

I  opened  my  mouth  to  protest,  but  was  interrupted  by  a  violent 
chattering  in  the  branches  above,  as  a  band  of  monkeys  scampered 
away  at  sound  of  our  voices.  They  soon  returned.  For  half  the 
night  those  jabbering,  clawing  little  brutes  kept  us  awake  and  ended 
by  driving  us  from  the  tree  entirely.  We  spent  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness left,  on  the  ground  at  its  foot,  indifferent  alike  to  snakes  and 
tigers. 

When  daylight  came  we  found  the  river  again  within  a  few  hundred 
yards  of  our  resting  place.  A  good  hour  afterward  we  stumbled, 
more  asleep  than  awake,  into  a  village  on  the  northern  bank  of  a 
large  tributary  of  the  Menam.  It  was  Klong  Sua  Mak,  the  home  of 
the  lumberman's  subagent;  but  our  letter  of  introduction  served  us 
no  purpose,  for  we  could  not  find  the  addressee.  It  did  not  matter 
much.  The  place  had  so  far  advanced  in  civilization  as  to  possess  a 
shop  where  food  was  sold.  In  it  we  made  up  for  our  fast  of  the 
night  before. 

The  meal  was  barely  over  when  we  were  again  in  the  midst  of  a 
village  riot.  It  was  all  the  fault  of  the  natives.  We  offered  them 
money  to  row  us  across  the  tributary,  but  they  turned  scornfully  away. 
•When  we  stepped  into  one  of  the  dug-outs  drawn  up  on  the  bank, 
they  charged  down  upon  us,  waving  their  dahs.  It  was  no  such  bur- 
lesque of  a  fight  as  that  of  the  day  before.  But  for  a  pike  pole  in 
the  boat  we  might  not  have  continued  our  wanderings  beyond  Klong 
Sua  Mak.  At  the  crisis  of  the  conflict  a  howling  fellow,  swinging  a 
«9 


450      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

great  knife,  bounded  suddenly  into  the  craft.  James  caught  him  by 
an  arm  and  a  leg.  A  glistening  brown  body  flashed  high  in  the  air; 
there  sounded  one  long-drawn  shriek;  and  the  bold  patriot  sank  in 
the  murky  water  some  distance  behind  us.  When  he  came  again  to 
the  surface,  unarmed,  we  had  pushed  off  from  the  shore. 

"  Damn  niggers !  "  growled  the  Australian,  catching  up  a  paddle. 
**  Serve  'em  right  if  we  kept  their  bloody  old  hollow  log  and  went 
down  to  Bangkok  in  her.  What  say  we  do?  "  he  cried,  *'  My  feet  are 
nothing  but  two  blisters." 

For  answer  I  swung  the  craft  half  round  and  we  glided  out  into 
the  Menam.  A  boat  load  of  natives  put  out  behind  us,  but  instead 
of  following  in  our  wake  they  paddled  across  the  river  and  down  the 
opposite  bank.  We  stretched  out  in  the  bottom  of  the  dug-out  and, 
drifting  with  the  current,  let  them  outstrip  us.  Far  down  the  stream 
they  turned  in  at  a  grove  above  which  rose  a  white  building.  I  dozed  \ 
a  moment  and  then  sat  up  suddenly  with  a  shout.  The  boat  load 
had  pushed  off  again,  and  behind  them  came  a  second  canoe  bearing 
six  khaki-clad  soldiers,  armed  with  muskets.  The  white  building  was 
a  military  post,  and  a  part  of  the  redoubtable  Siamese  army  was  on  our 
trail. 

"  Swing  her  ashore,"  cried  James,  grasping  his  paddle.  "  No  naval 
battles  in  mine." 

The  dug-out  grounded  on  the  sloping  bank.  Between  the  jungle 
and  the  water's  edge  was  a  narrow  open  space.  Adjusting  our  *'  swag," 
we  set  off  down  the  bank  at  any  easy  pace.  The  "  wild  men  "  beached 
their  boats  near  the  abandoned  dug-out  and  dashed  after  us,  shouting 
angrily.  A  few  paces  away  the  soldiers  drew  up  a  line  and  leveled  five 
muskets  at  us.  The  sergeant  shouted  an  order  commandingly.  An  icy 
chill  ran  up  and  down  my  spinal  column,  but  we  marched  on  with 
even  stride.  Knowing  what  we  did  of  the  Siamese  soldier,  we  were 
convinced  that  the  little  brown  fellows  would  not  dare  shoot  down  a 
white  man  in  cold  blood.  Nor  was  our  judgment  at  fault.  When  we 
had  advanced  a  few  yards  the  squad  ran  after  us  and  drew  up  once 
more  in  firing  line.  The  sergeant  bellowed  in  stentorian  tones ;  but  the 
guns  hung  fire. 

Seven  times  this  manoeuvre  was  repeated.  We  were  already  a  half- 
mile  from  the  landing  place.  Suddenly,  a  villager  snatched  a  musket 
from  a  soldier  and,  running  close  up  on  our  heels,  took  deliberate  aim. 
His  appearance  stamped  him  as  the  bold,  bad  man  of  that  region.  My 
flesh  crawled  in  anticipation  of  the  sting  of  a  bullet.     I  caught  my- 


Bangkok  is  a  city  of  many  canals 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  451 

self  wondering  in  what  part  of  my  body  it  would  be  lodged.  But  the 
fellow  vented  his  anger  in  shrieking  and  aiming ;  he  dared  not  pull  the 
trigger. 

Finding  us  indifferent  to  all  threats,  the  sergeant  changed  his  tac- 
tics. The  scene  became  ludicrous.  One  by  one  the  barefooted 
troopers  slipped  up  behind  us  and  snatched  at  our  packs  and  jackets. 
When  we  turned  on  them  they  fell  back  wild  eyed.  Their  persistence 
i^rew  annoying. 

"  Tip  me  off  when  the  next  one  tries  it,"  said  James. 

Out  of  a  corner  of  an  eye  I  watched  a  soldier  steal  up  on  my  com- 
panion and  reach  for  his  depleted  "  swag." 

"  Now !  "  I  shouted. 

The  Australian  whirled  and  caught  the  trooper's  musket  in  both 
hands.  The  fellow  let  go  of  it  with  a  scream,  and  the  whole  following 
])and,  sergeant,  soldiers,  villagers,  and  bold,  bad  man  turned  tail  and 
fled. 

Miles  beyond  we  met  two  lone  soldiers  perambulating  northward, 
and,  knowing  that  they  were  sure  to  stop  at  the  post  of  our  recent  ad- 
versaries, we  forced  the  musket  upon  them  and  plodded  on  clear  of 
conscience. 

Once  more  we  were  benighted  in  the  jungle  and  again  the  ground 
was  soggy  and  the  trees  alive  with  monkeys.  On  the  following  day, 
for  all  our  sleepiness  and  blistered  feet,  we  tramped  a  full  thirty  miles 
and  spent  that  night  in  an  odoriferous  bamboo  hut,  much  against  the 
owner's  will  —  and  our  own. 

Forty-eight  hours  after  our  escape  from  the  soldiers  we  reached 
Pakhampo,  an  important  village  numbering  several  Europeans  among 
its  inhabitants.  With  one  of  these  we  took  dinner.  His  house  floated 
on  a  bamboo  raft  in  a  tributary  of  the  Menam,  his  servants  were  "  wild 
men  "  of  his  own  training,  and  his  wife  a  native.  Unfeminine  as  is 
the  female  of  Siam,  with  her  black  teeth  and  her  bristling  pompadour, 
half  the  white  residents  of  the  kingdom,  many  of  them  men  of  educa- 
tion and  personality,  are  thus  mated. 

A  German  syndicate  has  undertaken  the  construction  of  the  first 
railway  of  Siam.  We  struck  out  along  the  top  of  the  unfinished 
grade  in  the  early  afternoon,  and,  no  longer  hampered  by  entangling 
undergrowth,  set  such  a  pace  as  we  had  not  before  in  weeks.  Long 
after  dark  we  reached  the  residence  of  a  German  superintendent  of 
construction,  who  gave  us  leave  to  sleep  in  an  adjoining  hut,  in  which 
were  stored  several  tons  of  dynamite.     An  hour's  tramp  next  morning 


452      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

brought  us  to  "  rail  head  "  and  the  work  train.  Hundreds  of  Chinese 
cooHes,  in  mud-bespattered  trousers  and  leaf  hats  three  feet  in  diame- 
ter, swarmed  upon  the  flat  cars  as  they  were  unloaded.  With  them 
we  jolted  away  through  the  sun-scorched  jungle. 

Ten  miles  south  the  train  took  a  siding  and  stopped  before  a  stone 
quarry  around  which  had  sprung  up  a  helter-skelter  Chinese  village. 
A  deluge  drove  us  into  a  shop  where  samshoo,  food,  and  coolie 
clothing  were  sold,  and  we  whiled  away  a  gloomy  morning  in  dis- 
cussing the  characters  of  the  proprietors,  whose  chief  pastime,  when 
they  were  not  quarreling  over  their  cards,  was  to  toss  back  and  forth 
about  the  room  a  dozen  boxes  of  dynamite.  At  noon  they  set  out  on 
these  same  boxes  a  generous  dinner  of  spitted  pork,  jerked  duck,  and 
rice  wine ;  and  invited  us  to  join  them.  We  did  so,  being  hungry,  yet 
anticipating  a  sad  depletion  of  our  funds  when  the  quarter-hour  of 
Gargantua  came.  All  through  the  meal  the  Chinamen  were  most  at- 
tentive. When  it  was  ended  they  rolled  us  cigarettes  in  wooden 
wrappers,  such  as  they  smoked  incessantly  even  while  eating. 

"  Suppose  they  '11  want  the  whole  bloody  fortune  now,"  sighed 
James,  as  I  drew  out  money  to  pay  them.  To  our  unbounded  sur- 
prise, however,  they  refused  to  accept  a  copper. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  suppose  their  game  is  ?  "  gasped  the  Aus- 
tralian. "  Something  foxy,  or  I  'm  a  dingo.  Never  saw  a  pig-tail  look 
a  bob  in  the  face  before  without  grabbing  for  it." 

The  dean  of  the  shopkeepers,  a  shifty-eyed  old  fellow  with  a  strag- 
gly grey  cue,  swung  suddenly  round  upon  us. 
"  Belly  fine  duck,"  he  grinned. 
Our  faces  froze  with  astonishment. 

"Dinner  all  light?"  he  went  on,  "  Belly  good  man,  me.  No  takee 
dollies  for  chow.  Many  Chinyman  takee  plenty.  You  fink  allee 
same  me.  No  damn  fear.  One  time  me  live  Flisco  by  white  man 
allee  same  you,  six  year.  Givee  plenty  dollies  for  joss  stick.  Me 
no  takee  for  chow." 

The  Celestials  had  grouped  themselves  about  us,  laughing  glee- 
fully at  the  surprise  which  the  old  man  had  sprung  on  us.  Of  the 
eight  Chinamen  in  the  hut,  six  spoke  "  pidgin  "  English  fluently  and 
had  understood  our  every  word. 

We  spent  the  afternoon  ih  acquiring  a  Chinese  vocabulary  for  the 
days  to  come.  Nor  were  these  jungle  merchants  poor  tutors.  At 
dusk  they  prepared  a  second  feast,  after  which  two  of  them  shouldered 
our  packs  and  led  the  way  through  the  wilderness  to  a  point  on  the 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  453 

main  line,  where  the  locomotive  of  the  work  train  was  to  halt  on  its 
way  south.  If  we  had  not  progressed  many  miles  during  the  day,  we 
had  at  least  discovered  an  entirely  new  side  to  the  Chinese  character. 

Freed  of  its  burden  of  flat  cars,  the  engine  raced  like  a  thing  of 
life  through  the  cool,  silent  night,  taking  the  curves  at  breathless 
angles.  We  sat  high  up  on  the  tender  chatting  with  the  Eurasian 
driver,  who,  having  a  clear  right  of  way,  left  his  throttle  wide  open 
until  the  station  lights  of  Choung  Kae  flashed  up  out  of  the  darkness. 
There  was  no  hotel  in  the  village ;  but  the  railway  agent  sent  his  cool- 
ies to  arrange  a  first-class  coach  for  our  accommodation.  The  lamps 
lighted,  the  leather  cushions  dusted,  a  chettie  set  within  reach,  and 
our  chamber  was  ready.  A  servant  brought  a  bundle  of  Bangkok 
newspapers,  and  we  sat  late  into  the  night,  listening,  for  the  first  time 
in  weeks,  to  the  voice  of  the  outside  world. 

At  noon  next  day  a  passenger  train  left  Choung  Kae,  and  for 
hours  we  rumbled  across  inundated  paddy  fields,  with  frequent  halts 
at  excited  bamboo  villages.  Then  towering  pagodas  rose  slowly  above 
the  southern  horizon,  the  jungle  died  away,  and  at  five  o'clock  the 
daily  train  of  Siam  pulled  in  at  the  Bangkok  station.  It  is  doubtful 
if  Rice,  meeting  us  face  to  face,  would  have  recognized  the  men  of 
whom  he  had  taken  leave  in  the  streets  of  Rangoon  just  three  weeks 
before.  Until  we  had  shaved  and  washed  in  a  barber's  booth  we 
had  not  the  audacity  to  introduce  ourselves  as  white  men  to  an  inn- 
keeper of  the  Siamese  capital. 

Somewhat  to  our  disappointment,  Bangkok  was  in  no  sense  the 
barbaric  metropolis  of  heartless  infanticides  we  had  so  often  pictured 
to  ourselves  in  fighting  eastward  through  the  jungle.  Spread  out  in 
the  low,  flat  basin  of  the  Menam,  there  was  something  of  monotony 
in  her  rambling  rows  of  weather-beaten  cottages.  Her  ill-paved 
streets  were  intersected  by  many  canals,  alive  with  shipping  in  the 
morning  hours,  but  stagnant  during  the  rest  of  the  day  with  low- 
roofed  boats  yawning  at  their  moorings.  Pagodas  and  rambling 
temples  and  monasteries  were  everywhere,  occupying  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  city's  area,  yet  unusual  neither  in  architecture  nor  in 
Oriental  ugliness.  To  the  traveler  who  has  seen  the  Far-East  else- 
where, there  was  little  novelty  in  the  capital  except  her  floating  houses, 
set  on  bamboo  rafts  in  the  Menam  and  rising  and  falling  with  the  tide. 

The  inhabitants,  lacking  the  politeness  of  the  Burmese,  were  dull 
and  docile,  stirring  abroad,  often,  as  briefly  clothed  as  their  brethren 
of  the  trackless  bush.     Chinamen  were  numerous,  the  European  com- 


454      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

munity  by  no  means  small.  Not  all  her  white  residents  dwell  in  Bang- 
kok by  choice.  A  majority  of  them,  if  popular  tradition  is  to  be 
credited,  came  thither  hastily  and  show  no  longing  to  depart.  For 
Siam  has  few  treaties  of  extradition  with  the  outside  world.  A 
few  of  these  exiles  have  prospered  and  are  commercial  powers  in  the 
capital.  Others  seem  content  to  live  out  their  declining  years  in  a 
simple  bungalow  of  the  suburbs,  with  a  native  wife  and  naught  to 
disturb  their  tropical  daydreams  save  the  dread  of  that  hour  in  which 
France  or  England  may  absorb  the  little  buffer  state  and  drive  them 
forth  to  seek  new  refuge.  Of  these  latter  we  met  a  half-dozen,  among 
them  two  of  my  own  countrymen,  who  made  no  secret  of  their  way- 
ward conduct  in  other  climes. 

There  were  neither  beachcombers  nor  shipping-offices  in  Bang- 
kok. Deck  passage  to  Hong  Kong,  however,  cost  next  to  nothing,  and 
four  days  after  our  arrival  we  made  application  for  tickets  at  the 
steamship  offices.  To  our  surprise  the  company  refused  to  sell  them. 
Deck  passage  was  for  natives  only;  white  men,  insisted  the  agent, 
must  travel  first  or  second  class. 

We  hurried  back  to  our  respective  consulates  and  met  again  a  half- 
hour  later,  each  armed  with  a  letter  to  the  obdurate  agent.  What 
the  representatives  of  our  outspoken  governments  had  written  we 
had  no  means  of  knowing;  but  the  notes  were  evidently  brief  and  to 
the  point,  for  the  clerk,  muttering  angrily  to  himself,  made  out  deck 
tickets  with  unusual  celerity.  The  next  afternoon  an  unclad  female 
paddled  us  lazily  across  the  Menam  in  a  raging  downpour  and  set  us 
aboard  the  Paklat,  a  miniature  North  German  Lloyd  steamer  that  cast 
off  her  shore  lines  three  hours  later,  and,  slipping  down  over  the  sand 
bar  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  dropped  anchor  next  morning  in  the  cove 
outside  to  finish  loading. 

The  Paklat  was  officered  by  five  Germans  and  manned  by  a  hun- 
dred Chinese  seamen,  stokers  and  stewards,  between  which  two 
nationalities  conversation  was  carried  on  entirely  in  English.  In  the 
first  cabin  were  several  wealthy  Oriental  merchants ;  "  on  deck,"  a 
half-hundred  Chinese  coolies.  Discipline  was  there  none  aboard  the 
craft.  The  sailors  obeyed  orders  when  they  chose  and  heaped  abuse 
on  the  officers  when  they  preferred  to  loaf.  For  the  latter,  in 
constant  dread  of  being  betrayed  to  the  pirates  that  abound  in  these 
waters,  stood  in  abject  fear  of  the  crew. 

Never  before  had  the  Paklat  carried  white  men  as  deck  passengers. 
The  Chinese  seamen,  therefore,  considering  our  presence  on  board 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  455 

an  encroachment  on  the  special  privileges  of  their  race,  had  greeted 
our  first  appearance  with  scowls  and  snarls,  and  vied  with  each  other 
in  so  arranging  their  work  as  to  cause  us  as  much  annoyance  as  pos- 
sible. We  laughed  at  their  enmity  and,  choosing  a  space  abaft  the 
wheelhouse,  stripped  to  trousers  and  undershirt  and  settled  down  for 
a   monotonous   voyage. 

Two  sweltering  days  the  steamer  rode  at  anchor  in  the  outer  bay. 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  the  entire  force  of  stewards,  some 
thirty  strong,  marched  aft  with  their  bowls  of  rice  and  squatted  in  a 
semicircle  near  us.  Not  satisfied  with  merely  encroaching  on  our 
chosen  precincts,  one  of  the  band  sat  down  on  the  bundle  containing 
my  kodak.  When  I  voiced  an  objection  the  fellow  leered  at  me  and 
refused  to  move.  I  threw  down  the  book  I  was  reading  and,  putting 
a  bare  foot  against  his  naked  shoulder,  pushed  him  aside  and  took  pos- 
session of  my  pack.  In  his  fall  he  dropped  and  broke  his  rice  bowl. 
The  entire  band,  accustomed,  like  most  Orientals,  to  avoid  angry 
white  men,  retreated  several  yards,  leaving  their  dishes  of  "  chow  " 
where  they  had  been  sitting.  The  chief  steward,  a  snaky-eyed  Celes- 
tial with  a  good  command  of  English,  berated  us  roundly  in  that 
tongue  and  then  ran  forward  to  summon  the  first  mate. 

"  Veil !  Veil !  Und  vat  I  can  do  ?  "  demanded  that  pudgy- faced 
Teuton,  when  he  had  heard  both  sides  of  the  story.  "  Vy  you  come 
deck-passengers?  You  must  look  out  by  yourself s  yet,"  and,  picking 
his  way  apologetically  among  the  screaming  stewards,  he  hurried  back 
to  the  bridge. 

For  a  moment  the  Chinamen  stood  silent.  I  turned  my  back  upon 
them  and,  sitting  down  on  the  bare  deck  beside  the  Australian,  fell 
again  to  reading. 

"  Kang  kweitze!"  (Kill  the  foreign  devils!)  screamed  the  chief 
of  the  stewards  suddenly.  With  a  roar  as  of  an  overturned  hive  of 
gigantic  bees,  the  Chinamen  surged  forward.  A  ten-foot  scantling, 
left  on  the  deck  by  the  carpenter,  struck  me  a  stunning  blow  on  the 
back  of  the  head,  knocking  my  book  overboard;  and  I  landed  face 
down  among  the  rudder-chains  at  the  rail. 

When  I  collected  my  wits  a  dozen  Chinamen  were  belaboring  me 
with  ,bamboo  cudgels.  I  struggled  to  my  feet.  James  was  laying 
about  him  right  merrily.  At  every  blow  of  his  hard,  brown  fists  a 
shrieking  Celestial  went  spinning  across  the  deck.  We  stood  back  to 
back  and  struck  out  desperately.  Buckets,  clubs,  and  rope-ends  beat 
a  continual  tattoo  on  our  heads  and  shoulders.     Of  a  dozen  bamboo 


456      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

stools  that  had  been  scattered  about  the  deck  no  less  than  eight  were 
smashed  to  bits  over  our  bare  crowns.  Inch  by  inch  we  fought  our 
way  around  the  deck  house  and,  escaping  from  our  assailants,  raced 
forward. 

In  the  waist  stood  four  of  the  German  officers,  huddled  together 
like  frightened  sheep. 

"  You  bloody  Dutchman !  "  cried  the  Australian,  shaking  his  fist 
in  the  face  of  the  first  mate.  "  You  'd  hang  back  and  see  a  man  killed. 
If  there  was  one  Englishman  on  board  we  'd  clean  out  that  bunch." 

The  Chinamen  had  retreated;  but  fearing  that  they  would  throw 
our  bundles  overboard,  we  armed  ourselves  with  two  stout  clubs  and 
again  started  aft. 

"  Keep  avay ! "  shrieked  the  first  mate,  "  You  make  riot  and  ve  all 
get  kilt!" 

**  It  M  be  no  loss,"  growled  James,  over  his  shoulder.  We  marched 
around  the  deck  house,  swinging  our  weapons,  and  rescued  our  "  swag  " 
without  mishap.  In  our  haste,  however,  we  forgot  our  shoes  and  the 
Australian's  helmet.  Once  more  we  turned  back  towards  the  scene 
of  conflict. 

"  Let  dem  alone,"  pleaded  the  chief  engineer,  "  vy  you  pick  fight  ?  " 

Having  no  desire  to  flaunt  our  belligerency  in  the  face  of  the  crew, 
and  fancying  their  anger  had  cooled  by  this  time,  we  tossed  aside  our 
clubs  and  continued  unarmed.  Grouped  abaft  the  deck  house,  the 
Chinamen  allowed  us  to  pass  unmolested.  We  stooped  to  pick  up  our 
footwear. 

"  Kang  kweitze !  "  screeched  the  chief  steward,  and  before  we  could 
straighten  up  they  were  upon  us.  It  was  a  more  savage  battle  than 
the  first.  The  remaining  bamboo  stools  were  wrecked  at  the  first 
onslaught.  We  struggled  forward  and  had  all  but  freed  ourselves 
again  when  James  stumbled  over  a  bollard  and  fell  prone  on  the  deck. 
A  score  of  Celestials  swarmed  about  his  prostrate  form;  every  man 
of  them  struck  him  at  least  a  dozen  blows  with  some  weapon.  Whole 
constellations  of  shooting  stars  danced  before  my  eyes  as  I  sprang  to 
his  assistance.  A  Chinaman  bounded  forward  with  a  scream  and 
struck  at  me  with  a  long,  thin  knife.  Instinctively  I  threw  up  my 
right  hand,  grasping  the  blade.  It  cut  one  of  my  fingers  to  the  bone, 
split  open  the  palm,  and  slashed  my  wrist.  But  the  fellow  let  go  of 
the  weapon  and,  thus  unexpectedly  armed,  we  were  not  long  in  fighting 
our  way  back  to  the  waist. 

When  we  had  washed  our  wounds  in  salt  water  and  bound  them 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  457 

as  best  we  could,  we  marched  to  the  cabin  to  charge  the  captain 
with  cowardice.  He  denied  our  assertion  and,  to  prove  his  valor, 
armed  himself  with  two  revolvers  and  led  the  way  aft.  It  was  with 
considerable  satisfaction  that  we  watched  a  dozen  of  our  assailants 
show  wounds  they  had  received  in  the  encounter.  The  comman- 
der endeavored  to  make  light  of  the  affair,  but  assigned  us  to  an 
unfurnished  cabin  in  the  deck  house  and  left  us  to  spend  a  feverish 
and  painful  night  on  the  slats  of  the  narrow  bunks.  In  the  morning 
there  was  not  a  spot  the  size  of  a  man's  hand  on  either  of  our  bodies 
that  was  not  black  and  blue.  The  Australian,  too,  had  suffered  an 
injury  to  the  spine,  and  all  through  the  voyage  he  was  confined  to  his 
comfortless  couch,  where  he  subsisted  chiefly  on  black  pills  doled  out 
by  the  skipper,  not  only  because  his  appetite  had  failed  him  but  be- 
cause he  lived  in  constant  fear  of  being  poisoned  by  the  Chinese  "  boy  " 
who  served  us. 

Eight  weary  days  the  decrepit  old  tramp  wheezed  like  an  asthmatic 
crone  along  the  indented  coast  of  Cochin-China.  On  the  morning  fol- 
lowing the  anniversary  of  my  departure  from  Detroit  two  small  islands 
of  mountainous  formation  rose  from  the  sea  on  our  port  bow.  Sev- 
eral junks,  manned  by  evil-faced,  unshaven  Monguls,  bobbed  up  out 
of  the  dawn  and,  hooking  the  rail  of  the  Paklat  with  grappling- 
irons,  towed  beside  us,  shouting  offers  of  assistance  to  the  passengers 
possessed  of  baggage.  More  verdant  islands  appeared  and  when  we 
slipped  into  the  horseshoe  harbor  of  Hong  Kong  it  was  still  half 
shaded  by  the  wooded  amphitheater  that  incloses  it. 

A  sampan,  floating  residence  of  a  numerous  family,  set  us  ashore. 
We  made  our  way  to  the  Sailors'  Home.  My  hand  had  healed,  but 
James  had  by  no  means  recovered.  As  the  day  waned  we  made  ap- 
plication in  his  behalf  at  the  municipal  hospital.  It  was  the  Aus- 
tralian's misfortune  that  he  was  a  British  subject.  Had  he  been  of 
any  other  nationality  his  consul  would  soon  have  arranged  for  his  ad- 
mission. But  as  an  Englishman  he  was  legally  at  home  and  must  there- 
fore shift  for  himself.  For  several  days  he  was  turned  away  from 
the  infirmary  on  threadbare  pleas.  Then  at  last  he  was  admitted, 
and  I  turned  my  attention  to  outgoing  ships,  eager  to  be  off,  yet  sorry 
to  leave  behind  the  best  companion  with  whom  I  had  ever  shared  the 
joys  and  miseries  of  the  open  road. 

The  next  morning  I  boarded  the  Fausang,  an  English  cargo  steamer 
about  to  sail  for  Shanghai,  and  explained  my  desires  to  the  good- 
humored  British  mate. 


458      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Sure,  lad !  "  he  cried,  booting  across  the  hatchway  a  Chinaman 
who  was  belaboring  a  female  stevedore.  "  Come  on  board  to-night 
and  go  to  work.  We  can't  sign  you  on,  but  the  old  man  will  be  glad 
to  give  you  a  few  bob  for  the  run." 

At  midnight  we  sailed.  Again  I  quickly  fell  into  the  routine  of 
watch  and  watch  and  life  in  the  forecastle.  Four  days  later  we  an- 
chored in  quarantine  at  the  mouth  of  the  Woosung,  then  steamed 
slowly  up  the  murky  stream  between  flat,  verdureless  banks  adorned 
by  immense  godowns,  and  docked  close  off  the  Sailors'  Home. 

It  is  at  Shanghai  that  the  American  wanderer,  circumnavigating 
the  globe  from  west  to  east,  begins  to  feel  that  he  is  approaching  his 
native  land.  Not  only  is  he  technically  at  home  in  one  section  of  the 
international  city,  but  it  is  here  that  he  meets  the  vanguard  of  penni- 
less adventurers  from  "  the  States."  Tramps  from  the  Pacific  slope 
venture  now  and  then  thus  far  afield,  as  those  along  the  opposite  sea- 
board drift  across  to  the  British  Isles.  But  the  world  that  lies  be- 
tween these  outposts  knows  little  of  the  "  hobo." 

Rumor  had  it  that  "  the  graft "  was  good  in  the  Chinese  port.  Be- 
fore I  had  been  a  day  ashore  I  came  across  a  dozen  or  more  fellow- 
countrymen  who  had  picked  up  a  living  for  weeks  among  the  tender- 
hearted white  residents  and  tourists.  That  was  no  great  difficulty, 
to  be  sure,  for  samshoo,  the  Chinese  fire-water,  sold  cheaply;  and  an 
abundant  meal  of  milk,  bread,  potatoes,  and  eggs  was  to  be  had  for 
ten  cents  "  Mex  "  in  the  establishment  of  a  native  who  enjoyed  the 
distinction  of  having  lived  in  "  Flisco." 

There  were  delightful  spots,  too,  in  the  close-packed  city.  Along 
the  Bund  in  the  English  section  was  a  pleasant  little  park  to  which 
white  men,  Indians,  or  plain  "  niggers  "  might  retreat ;  but  to  which 
no  Chinaman,  be  he  coolie  or  mandarin,  was  admitted.  When  the  sun 
was  well  on  its  decline  a  stroll  out  Bubbling  Well  Road  proved  an 
agreeable  experience.  Towards  nightfall  the  European  rendezvous 
was  the  broad,  grassy  Maidan,  where  Englishmen,  in  spotless  flannels, 
and  crumple-shirted  Americans,  perspired  at  their  respective  national 
pastimes.  So  numerous  were  the  residents  of  Shanghai  hailing  from 
"  the  States  "  that  each  evening  two  teams  struggled  against  each 
other  in  a  series  that  was  to  decide  the  baseball  championship  of 
southern  China. 

European  Shanghai  is  the  center  of  business  activity.  Round  about 
it  lies  many  a  square  mile  of  two-story  shanties  that  throttle  each 
other  for  leave  to  stand  erect,  fed  by  a  maze  of  narrow  footpaths 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  459 

aglow  with  brilliant  signboards  and  gay  joss-houses,  and  surcharged 
with  sour-faced  Celestials  who  scowl  threateningly  at  the  European 
pedestrian  or  mock  his  movements  in  exaggerated  gesture  and  gri- 
mace. Cackling  vendors  zigzag  through  the  throng;  wealthy  China- 
men in  festive  robes  and  carefully  oiled  cues  pick  their  way  along 
the  meandering  lanes ;  burly  runners,  bearing  on  one  shoulder  a  lady 
of  quality  crippled  since  infancy  by  dictate  of  an  ancient  custom,  jog 
in  and  out  among  the  shoppers. 

There  is  in  Shanghai  an  institution  known  officially  as  "  Hanbury's 
Coffee  House,"  popularly,  as  the  "  bums'  retreat."  Of  the  two  titles 
the  latter  is  more  exactly  descriptive.  But  its  charges  were  lower 
than  those  of  the  Sailors'  Home,  and  on  my  third  day  in  the  city  I 
moved  thither.  With  my  "  swag  "  under  one  arm  I  strolled  into  the 
common  room  and  approached  the  proprietor  behind  the  register.  A 
dozen  beachcombers  were  sitting  over  cards  and  samshoo  at  the 
small  tables.  As  I  reached  for  the  pen  a  sudden  shout  sounded  be- 
hind me:  — 

"  By  God !  There  's  the  very  bloke  now !  The  bum  that  carries  a 
camera.     Hello,   Franck !  " 

The  speaker  dashed  across  the  room  with  outstretched  hand.  It 
was  Haywood,  that  much-wanted  youth,  famous  for  his  adventures 
in  Sing  Sing  and  India. 

"  I  was  this  minute  spinnin'  your  yarn  to  Bob  here,"  he  cried,  in- 
dicating a  grinning  seaman  at  his  heels,  '*  when  who  should  come  in 
but  yourself  as  big  as  life.  Gee!  I  thought  for  a  minute  this  rice- 
water  was  beginning  to  put  me  off  my  feet.  So  you  Ve  beat  it  to 
here,  eh  ?     Show  Bob  the  phizz-snapper  or  he  '11  think  I  'm  a  liar. 

"  Say,"  he  continued,  as  Bob  turned  the  apparatus  over  in  his 
stubby  fingers  with  the  nervousness  of  a  bachelor  handling  a  baby, 
"  where  in  Niggerland  did  you  and  Marten  go  that  night  you  beat  me 
out  of  the  chow-room  at  the  Home  in  Cally?     You  sure  faded  fast." 

"  Up  country,"  I  answered,  and  gave  him  a  brief  account  of  my 
travels  since  we  had  separated. 

"  Well,  I  've  had  a  hell  of  a  run,  too,"  he  said,  when  I  had  finished, 
"  though  there  was  no  jungle  in  it.  When  I  made  that  pier-head 
jump  out  of  Rangoon  I  thought  I  was  signed  on  A.  B.  But  the  skip- 
per thought  different  and  it  was  down  in  the  sweat-box  for  mine.  , 
The  lads  had  told  me  she  was  bound  for  China,  but  before  we  was  two 
days  out  the  mate  passed  the  tip  that  she  was  off  for  the  States.  It 
near  give  me  heart  failure,  but  I  took  a  ramble  through  the  bunkers 


46o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

and  as  they  was  half  empty  I  knew  the  old  man  'd  have  to  put  in  some- 
where for  coal.  So  I  tried  soldierin',  hopin'  to  be  kicked  ashore.  In 
three  weeks  we  dropped  into  Yoko,  but  when  I  hit  the  skipper  for  my 
discharge  he  give  me  the  glassy  eye.  So  I  packed  my  swag  and  went 
down  the  anchor-chain  into  a  sampan  at  midnight,  and  the  next  mornin' 
give  the  consul  a  song  and  dance  about  the  tub  bein'  the  hungriest  craft 
afloat  and  the  mate  the  meanest.  He  took  it  all  in  and  when  the  old 
man  come  ashore  he  told  him  to  pay  me  off  p.  d.  q. 

"  The  month's  screw  give  me  a  good  blow-out  that  ended  in  two 
days  by  me  gettin'  broke  an'  pinched.  When  I  got  out  I  hit  it  off 
for  Kobe  on  a  passenger  and  turned  a  little  trick  the  night  I  got  there 
that  landed  me  over  seventy  yen.  It  was  a  cinch  I  had  to  fade  away, 
so  I  took  a  pasteboard  to  Naggy.  But  the  graft  was  no  good  there, 
so  I  picked  up  with  Bob  an'  a  deck  passage  an'  here  we  are.  This  is 
plenty  near  enough  the  States  for  mine.  But  say,"  he  concluded,  in 
a  confidential  whisper,  "  I  have  n  't  got  a  red.  Happen  to  have  the 
price  of  a  flop  that  ain't  workin'?" 

In  memory  of  old  times  I  paid  his  lodging  for  the  night  and  we 
wandered  out  into  the  city. 

When  I  awoke  two  mornings  later  a  dismal  downpour  promised 
a  day  of  forced  inactivity;  and  inactivity  in  a  foreign  land  means 
ennui  and  a  stirring  of  the  Wanderlust.  I  packed  my  "  swag  "  hur- 
riedly, therefore,  and  an  hour  later  was  slipping  down  the  Woosung 
on  board  the  Chenan  of  the  Nippon  Yusen  Kaisha.  Among  several 
hundred  third-class  passengers  I  was  the  only  European;  but  I  have 
yet  to  be  treated  more  considerately  by  fellow-travelers.  Our  sleep- 
ing quarters  consisted  of  two  inclined  platforms  running  half  the 
length  of  the  ship,  on  which,  in  my  ignorance,  I  neglected  to  pre- 
empt a  claim.  But  I  lost  nothing  thereby,  for  no  sooner  was  it  noised 
among  the  Japanese  that  an  American  was  unprovided  for,  than  a 
dozen  crowded  round  to  offer  me  their  places.  I  joined  a  party  of 
four  students  returning  from  Pekin,  and,  by  packing  ourselves  together 
like  spoons,  we  found  room  without  depriving  any  other  of  his  quar- 
ters. 

Three  times  daily  we  filed  by  the  galley  and  received  each  a  small 
wooden  box  divided  into  three  compartments;  the  larger  contained 
rice,  the  smaller,  oily  vegetables  and  tiny  baked  fish.  With  each  meal 
came  a  new  pair  of  chopsticks.  Japanese  food  does  not  appeal  greatly 
to  the  white  man's  appetite ;  but  the  food  supplied  on  the  Chenan  was 


THE  JUNGLES  OF  SIAM  461 

far  less  depressing  to  the  spirits  than  the  steerage  rations  on  many  a 
transatlantic   liner. 

On  the  second  morning  out,  the  rolling  green  hills  of  Japan  rose 
slowly  above  the  sun-flecked  sea.  My  companions  hailed  each  land- 
mark with  patriotic  fervor  and  strove  to  convince  me  that  we  had 
reached  the  most  beautiful  spot  on  the  globe.  In  reality  they  were 
not  far  wrong.  The  verdure-framed  harbor  of  Nagasaki  was  little 
less  charming  than  that  of  Hong  Kong;  from  the  water's  edge  rose 
an  undulating,  drab-roofed  town  that  covered  the  low  coast  ranges 
like  a  wrinkled  brown  carpet,  and  faded  away  in  the  blue  wreaths  of 
hillside  forests. 

The  port  was  bustling  with  activity.  Sampans,  in  which  stood  po- 
licemen in  snow-white  uniforms,  scurried  towards  us.  Close  at  hand 
two  dull  grey  battle  ships  scowled  out  across  the  roadstead.  Doctors, 
custom  officers,  and  gendarmes  crowded  on  board.  For  the  first  time  in 
months  I  was  sensible  of  being  in  a  civilized  country.  In  consequence 
there  were  formalities  without  number  to  be  gone  through ;  but  a 
sailor's  discharge  is  a  passport  in  any  land.  By  blazing  noonday  I 
had  stepped  ashore. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WANDERING   IN    JAPAN 

SET  me  down  at  the  Sailors'  Home,"  I  ordered,  stepping  into  the 
first  'rickshah  to  reach  me. 
"  No    good,"    answered    the    runner,    dropping    the    shafts. 
"  Sailor  Home  he  close." 

"  We  '11  go  and  see,"  I  replied,  knowing  the  ways  of  'rickshah-men. 

But  the  Home  was  unoccupied,  sure  enough,  and  its  windows 
boarded  up.  The  runner  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  had 
been  insulted  without  reason. 

"  Me  know  ver'  fine  hotel,'  he  said,  haughtily,  "  Many  white  sailor 
man  stop.     Me  takee  there.     Ver'  fine." 

I  acquiesced,  and  he  jogged  out  along  the  strand  driveway  and  half- 
way round  the  sparkling  harbor.  Near  the  top  of  one  of  the  ridges 
on  which  Nagasaki  is  built  he  halted  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  cut  in  a  hillside. 

*'  Hotel  topside,"  he  panted,  pointing  upward. 

In  the  perfumed  grove  at  the  summit  stood  a  house  so  frail  and 
dainty  that  it  seemed  a  toy  dwelling.  Its  courtyard  was  gay  with 
nodding  flowers,  about  the  veranda  posts  twined  red-blossomed  vines. 
In  the  doorway  stood  a  Japanese  woman,  buxom,  yet  pretty.  Though 
her  English  was  halting,  her  welcome  was  most  cordial.  She  led  the 
way  to  a  quaintly  decorated  chamber,  arranged  cushions,  and  bade  me 
sit  down.  I  laid  aside  my  bundle  and  gazed  out  across  the  panorama 
of  the  harbor,  delicate  in  coloring ;  a  scene  rarely  equaled  in  any  climej 
Fortunate,  indeed,  had  I  been  ,to  find  so  charming  a  lodging. 

A  panel  moved  noiselessly  aside.  The  proprietress  again  slipped 
into  the  room  and  clapped  her  hands  thrice.  Behind  her  sounded  a 
choral  whisper,  and  six  girls,  lustrous  of  coiflFure,  clad  in  gaily  flow- 
ered kimonas,  glided  towards  me  with  so  silent  a  tread  that  they 
seemed  to  float  through  the  air.  All  were  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth, 
as  dainty  of  face  and  form  as  they  were  graceful  of  movement. 
Twice  they  circled  around  me,  ever  drawing  nearer,  then,  halting  a 
few  feet  away,  they  dropped  to  their  knees,  touched  their  foreheads 

462 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  463 

to  the  floor,  and  sat  up  smiling.     The  landlady,  standing  erect,  gazed 
down    upon   me. 

"  Sailor  man,  how  you  like  ?  "  she  purred,  "  Ver'  nice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  nice,"  I  echoed. 

"  Well,  take  which  one  you  like  and  get  married,"  she  continued. 

The  'rickshah-man,  alas,  knew  the  ways  of  sailors  but  too  well.  I 
picked  up  my  bundle  and,  glancing  regretfully  down  upon  the  harbor, 
stepped  out  on  the  veranda. 

"  What ! "  cried  the  matron,  following  after  me,  "  You  not  like  get 
married?  Ver'  nice  room,  ver'  good  chow,  ver*  nice  wife,  fifteen  yen 
one  week." 

I  crossed  the  flowery  courtyard  towards  the  stone  stairway. 

"  You  no  like  ?  "  called  the  landlady,  "  Ver'  sorry.     Good-bye." 

Beside  a  canal  down  near  the  harbor  I  found  a  less  luxurious  hotel. 
The  proprietor,  awakened  from  a  doze  among  the  bottles  and  de- 
canters of  the  bar-room,  gurgled  a  thick-voiced  welcome.  He  was  an 
American,  a  wanderer  since  boyhood,  for  some  years  domiciled  in 
Nagasaki.  The  real  manager  of  the  hotel  was  his  Japanese  wife,  a 
sprightly  matron  whose  farsighted  business  acumen  was  evidenced 
by  a  stringent  rule  she  had  laid  down  forbidding  her  besotted  spouse 
entrance,  except  at  meal  hours,  to  any  other  section  of  the  hostelry 
than  the  bar-room.  Most  interesting  of  the  household  were  the  off- 
spring of  this  pair,  a  boy  and  girl  of  twelve  and  ten.  In  them  were 
combined  the  best  qualities  of  the  parent  races.  No  American  chil- 
dren could  have  been  quicker  of  wit  nor  more  whole-heartedly  diligent 
at  work  or  play;  no  Japanese  more  open  to  impression  nor  more  in- 
herently polite  of  demeanor.  Already  the  father  was  accustomed  to 
refer  to  his  son  problems  too  complicated  for  his  own  unresponsive 
intellect;  the  mother  left  to  her  daughter  the  details  of  flower-plot 
and  wardrobe. 

Lodged  in  an  airy  chamber,  I  could  have  slept  late  next  morning  had 
I  not  been  awakened  at  daybreak  by  what  seemed  to  be  a  rapid  suc- 
cession of  revolver  shots.  I  sprang  to  the  window,  half  fearing  that 
the  proprietor  was  assassinating  his  wife  in  a  drunken  frenzy.  In 
the  yard  below  squatted  the  half-breed  children,  with  a  stick  of 
"  punk  "  and  a  great  bundle  of  fire-crackers.  I  had  forgotten  the  date. 
It  was  the  Fourth,  and  Nagasaki  was  celebrating.  All  through  the 
day  bombilations  sounded  at  regular  intervals  about  the  city;  nor  was 
the  racket  instigated  entirely  by  American  residents. 

Ordinarily  the  boy  and  girl  of  the  hotel  dressed  exactly  like  their 


464      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

playmates  and  no  sooner  turned  their  backs  on  their  father  than  they 
lapsed  at  once  into  the  native  tongue.  But  on  this  American  day  the 
boy  wore  a  knickerbocker  suit  and  leather  shoes;  his  sister  had  laid 
aside  her  kimona  and  wooden  sandals  to  don  a  short  frock  and  long 
stockings.  Instead  of  the  intricate  coiffure  of  the  day  before,  her 
jet-black  hair  hung  in  two  braids  over  her  shoulders;  and  not  once 
during  all  that  festal  day  did  a  word  of  Japanese  pass  between  them. 

Two  days  later,  garbed  in  an  American  khaki  uniform  chosen  from 
the  stock  of  a  pawnbroker  popular  with  soldiers  returning  from  the 
Philippines,  I  sought  out  the  railway  station  and  took  third-class  pas- 
sage for  Hiroshima.  Two  policemen  blocked  my  entrance  to  the  plat- 
form, and,  in  spite  of  my  protest  that  my  history  was  recorded  in  full 
on  the  hotel  register,  they  filled  several  pages  of  their  notebooks 
with  an  account  of  my  doings.  For  the  war  with  Russia  was  at  its 
height  and  a  strict  watch  was  kept  on  all  white  men  within  the  em-  : 
pire. 

The  train  wound  off  through  a  rolling,  sylvan  country,  here  cir- 
cling the  base  of  a  thickly-wooded  hill,  there  clinging  close  to  the 
shore  of  a  sparkling  bay.  Not  an  acre  capable  of  production  was  un- 
tilled.  Peasants  toiled  in  every  valley,  on  every  hillside;  their  neat 
cottages  dotted  the  landscape  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  Populous, 
wide-awake  villages  succeeded  each  other  rapidly.  The  stations  were 
well-equipped  buildings  bearing  both  in  Japanese  and  English  the 
name  of  the  town  they  served.  In  his  eagerness  to  imitate  the  west-  ; 
ern  world  the  Jap  has  adopted  one  custom  which  might  better  have 
been  passed  over.  The  gorgeous  landscape  was  half  hidden  at  times 
by  huge  unsightly  signboards  bellowing  forth  the  alleged  virtues  of 
every   conceivable   ware. 

The  coaches  were  built  on  the  American  plan,  and  every  carriage 
was  a  smoking-car;  for  the  use  of  tobacco  is  well-nigh  universal  in 
Japan  among  both  sexes.  Barely  had  a  lady  folded  her  legs  under 
her  on  a  bench  across  the  aisle  than  she  drew  out  a  pipe  in  appear- 
ance like  a  long  lead  pencil,  the  bowl  of  which  held  much  less  than 
the  smallest  thimble,  and  a  leather  pouch  containing  tobacco  as  fine 
as  the  hair  of  the  head.  The  pipe  lighted,  she  took  one  long  pull  at 
it,  knocked  out  the  residue  on  the  back  of  the  seat  before  her,  refilled 
the  bowl,  exhaled  from  her  lungs  the  first  puff,  and,  turning  the  pipe 
upside  down,  lighted  it  again  from  the  glowing  embers  of  the  first 
filling.  The  pipe  held  only  enough  for  one  puff ;  the  smoker  filled  it 
a  score  of  times  before  she  was  satisfied,  always  keeping  the  smoke  in 


m 

mM 

r- : 

.^ 

'iiL 

'>yk»».. 

**  . 

:jm| 

labiiiiiAii 


A  swimming-school  of  Japan,  teachers  on  the  bank,   novices  near  the  shore,  and 
advanced  students,  in  white  head-dress,  well  out  in  the  pool 


Women  do  most  of  the  work  in  the  rice-fields  of  Japan 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  465 

her  lungs  until  the  bowl  was  refilled,  and  using  a  match  only  for  the 
first  lighting.  Dining-cars  were  there  none.  At  nearly  every  station 
boxes  containing  a  goodly  supply  of  rice,  several  boiled  and  pickled 
vegetables,  one  baked  fish,  and  a  pair  of  chopsticks  only  half  split  in 
two,  were  sold  on  the  platform.  The  contents  were  always  the  same ; 
the  price  fixed  and  surprisingly  low. 

I  had  not  taken  care  to  choose  a  through-train  to  Hiroshima.  Not 
long  after  nightfall  the  one  on  which  I  was  traveling  reached  its 
terminal,  a  town  named  Hakata,  and  left  me  to  spend  the  night  in  the 
waiting-room.  Before  I  had  fallen  asleep  a  band  of  youths  employed 
about  the  station  began  a  series  of  tricks  that  kept  me  wide-awake 
until  morning.  They  threw  vegetables  and  rotten  fruit  at  me  through 
the  windows ;  they  pushed  open  the  door  to  roll  tin  cans  across  the 
floor;  if  I  fell  into  a  doze  they  sneaked  inside  to  deluge  me  with 
water  or  drag  me  ofif  my  wooden  couch.  Much  we  hear  of  the  an- 
noyances to  which  the  kindly  Japanese  residents  on  our  Pacific  slope 
are  subjected;  yet  no  band  of  San  Francisco  hoodlums  could  have  out- 
done these  youths  in  concocting  schemes  to  make  life  miserable  for  a 
foreigner  in  their  midst. 

Two  hours'  ride  from  Hakata  brought  me  to  Moji  and  the  ferry 
that  connects  the  southern  island  with  the  largest  of  the  kingdom.  Po- 
licemen halted  me  on  both  sides  of  the  strait  and  twice  I  was  com- 
pelled to  dictate  the  history  of  my  past.  From  Shimonesaki  the  rail- 
way skirted  the  shore  of  the  Inland  Sea,  passing  the  military  hospital 
of  Itsukaishi,  where  hundreds  of  convalescing  soldiers,  attired  in  flow- 
ing white  kimonas  with  a  great  red  cross  on  their  breasts,  strolled  and 
lolled  in  the  surrounding  groves. 

I  descended  in  the  twilight  at  Pliroshima  in  company  with  two  Eng- 
lish-speaking youths  who  had  taken  upon  themselves  the  task  of  find- 
ing me  a  lodging.  The  proprietor  .of  a  hotel  not  far  from  the  station 
acknowledged  that  he  had  never  housed  a  white  man,  but  begged  for 
permission  to  show  his  versatility.  I  bade  my  new  acquaintances 
farewell.  The  hotel  ofiice  was  a  sort  of  patio,  paved  with  small  stones, 
from  which  a  broad  stairway  with  quaintly  carved  balustrade  led  up- 
ward. Mine  host  shouted  a  word  of  command.  A  smiling  matron, 
short  of  stature,  her  inclination  to  embonpoint  rendered  doubly  con- 
spicuous by  the  ample  oba  wound  round  and  round  her  waist,  ap- 
peared on  the  landing  above  and  beckoned  to  me  to  ascend.  I  caught 
up  my  bundle;  but  before  I  had  mounted  two  steps  the  proprietor 

sprang  forward  with  a  scream  and,  clutching  at  my  coat-tails,  dragged 
30 


466      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

me  back.  A  half-dozen  servant  girls  tumbled  wild-eyed  into  the  patio 
and  joined  the  landlord  in  heaping  abuse  upon  me.  I  had  dared  to 
start  up  the  stairway  without  removing  my  shoes !  The  sight  of  a 
guest  at  a  Fifth-avenue  hotel  jumping  into  bed  fully  clad  could  not  have 
aroused  such  an  uproar. 

I  pulled  off  the  offending  brogans ;  the  keeper  added  them  to  a  long 
line  of  wooden  sandals  ranged  along  the  wall;  and  the  matron  con- 
ducted me  to  a  small  chamber  with  a  balcony  opening  on  the  street. 
Everything  about  the  apartment  added  to  the  feeling  that  I  was  a 
giant  among  Lilliputians;  the  ceiling,  gay  with  gorgeously  tinted 
dragons,  was  so  low,  the  walls  mere  sliding  panels  of  half-transparent 
paper  stamped  with  flowers  and  strange  figures,  the  highly-polished 
floor  so  frail  that  it  yielded  under  every  step.  With  a  flying  start  a 
man  could  have  run  straight  through  the  house  and  left  it  a  wreck 
behind. 

The  room  was  entirely  unfurnished.  The  hostess  placed  a  cushion 
for  me  in  the  center  of  the  floor  and  clapped  her  hands.  A  servant 
girl  slipped  in,  bearing  a  tray  on  which  was  a  tiny  box  of  live  coals, 
several  cigarettes,  a  joint  of  bamboo  standing  upright,  and  a  pot  of 
tea  with  cup  and  saucer.  Having  deposited  her  burden  at  my  feet, 
and  touched  her  forehead  to  the  floor,  the  maid  handed  me  a  cigarette, 
poured  out  tea,  and  remained  kneeling  a  full  half-hour,  filling  the  tiny 
cup  as  often  as  I  emptied  it.  When  she  was  gone  I  picked  up  the 
joint  of  bamboo,  fancying  it  contained  sweetmeats  or  tobacco.  It  was 
empty,  however,  and  I  was  left  to  wonder  until  the  hostess  returned. 
When  she  had  understood  my  gestures  she  began  a  wordy  explanation ; 
but  I  shook  my  head.  With  a  grimace  that  was  evidently  meant  to  be 
an  apology,  she  caught  up  the  hollow  joint  and  spat  into  it.  The 
thing  was  merely  a  Japanese  spittoon. 

A  maid  soon  served  supper.  She  brought  first  of  all  a  table  some 
■  eight  inches  high,  then  a  great  wooden  bucket  brimming  full  of  hard- 
packed  rice,  and  lastly,  several  little  papier-mache  bowls.  One  held  a 
greasy  liquid  in  which  floated  the  yolk  of  an  egg,  another  a  small, 
soggy  turnip,  a  third  a  sample  of  some  native  salad,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
fourth  lay  in  dreary  isolation  a  pathetic  little  minnow.  Of  rice  there 
was  sufficient  for  a  squad  of  soldiers ;  but  without  it  the  meal  could  not 
have  satisfied  a  hungry  canary. 

As  I  ate,  the  girl  poured  out  tea  in  a  cup  that  held  a  single  swal- 
low. Fortunately,  I  had  already  served  my  apprenticeship  in  the  use 
of  chopsticks,  or  I  should  have  been  forced  to  revert  to  the  primitiv^e 


Horses  are  rare  in  Japan.     Men  and  baggage  are  drawn  by  coolies 


Japanese  children  playing  in  the  streets  of  Kioto 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  467 

table  manners  of  the  Hindu.  As  it  was,  it  required  great  dexterity 
to  possess  myself  of  the  swimming  yolk;  and  he  who  fancies  it  is 
easy  to  balance  a  satisfying  mouthful  of  rice  on  the  ends  of  two  slivers 
has  only  to  try  it  to  be  disillusioned. 

The  meal  over,  I  descended  for  a  stroll  through  the  town.  The 
host  brought  my  shoes,  grinning  sympathetically  at  the  weight  thereof, 
and  I  stepped  out  to  mingle  with  the  passing  throng.  There  is  nothing 
more  inimitable  than  the  voice  of  the  street  in  Japan.  He  who  has 
once  heard  it  could  never  mistake  it  for  another.  There  is  no  rum- 
ble of  traffic  to  tire  the  senses,  no  jangle  of  tramways  to  inflict  the 
ear.  Horses  are  almost  as  rare  as  in  Venice,  and  the  rubber-tired 
'rickshah  behind  a  grass-shod  runner  passes  as  silently  as  a  winged 
creature.  The  rank  and  file,  however,  are  content  to  go  on  foot,  and 
the  scrape,  scrape,  scrape  of  wooden  clogs  sounds  an  incessant  trebled 
note  that  may  be  heard  in  no  other,  land. 

There  are  Oriental  cities  in  which  the  stranger  would  hesitate  to 
wander  after  nightfall;  in  this  well-ordered  land  he  feels  instinctively 
that  he  is  running  less  risk  of  disagreeable  encounter  than  in  any 
metropolis  of  our  own  country.  Class  and  mass  mingle  in  the  multi- 
tude ;  evil  and  brutal  faces  pass  here  and  there ;  the  European  is  some- 
times subjected  to  the  annoyance  of  unseemly  curiosity,  he  may  even 
be  roughly  jostled  now  and  then;  for  the  politeness  of  the  Jap  is  in- 
dividual, never  collective.  But  rarely  does  the  sound  of  brawling  rise 
above  the  peaceful  falsetto  of  scraping  clogs. 

I  returned  to  the  hotel  fancying  I  was  doomed  to  sleep  on  the  pol- 
ished floor;  but  the  matron,  apprised  of  my  arrival,  glided  in  and 
inquired,  by  the  cosmopolitan  pantomime  of  resting  her  cocked  head 
in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  if  I  was  ready  to  retire.  I  nodded,  and  at  her 
signal  a  servant  appeared  with  a  quilt  of  great  thickness,  which  she 
spread  in  the  center  of  the  floor.  To  an  uncritical  wanderer  this 
seemed  of  itself  a  soft  enough  resting  place,  but  not  until  six  pud- 
ding-like counterpanes  had  been  piled  one  on  top  of  the  other  was  the 
landlady  content.  Over  this  couch,  that  had  taken  on  the  form  of  a 
huge  layer-cake,  the  pair  spread  a  coverlet  — ■  there  were  no  sheets  — 
and  backed  out  of  the  room.  I  rose  to  disrobe,  but  before  I  had  touched 
a  button  they  were  back  again,  this  time  dragging  behind  them  a  great 
net^  stout  enough  in  texture  to  have  held  Paul's  draught  of  fishes. 
Disentangled,  the  thing  proved  to  be  canopy-shaped.  While  the  ma- 
tron attached  the  four  corners  of  the  top  to  hooks  in  the  ceiling,  the 
maid  tucked  the  edges  in  under  the  stack  of  quilts. 


468      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

I  was  not  averse  to  retiring  at  once,  but  at  that  moment  there  ar- 
rived a  cotton-clad  youth  who  announced  himself  as  a  police  inter- 
preter. Official  Hiroshima  was  anxious  to  know  more  of  the  Ameri- 
cajin  whose  arrival  had  been  reported  by  the  station  guards.  The 
youth  drew  forth  a  legal  form  and  read,  in  a  singsong  voice,  ques- 
tions covering  every  period  of  my  existence  since  squalling  infancy. 
Between  each  the  pause  was  long,  for  the  interpreter  must  repeat  each 
answer  to  the  open-mouthed  females  kneeling  beside  us  and  set  it 
down  in  the  muscular  native  script.  I  passed  a  yawning  half-hour  be- 
fore he  was  finished,  and  another  before  he  ended  a  smoke-choked 
oration  on  the  joy  which  my  coming  had  awakened  in  the  hearts  of 
his  fellow  officers.  Ere  he  departed  he  found  opportunity  to  inquire 
into  my  plans  for  the  future.  I  announced  my  intention  of  continuing 
eastward  in  the  morning. 

"  You  must  go  so  f astly  ?  "  he  queried,  with  grief-stricken  counte- 
nance. "  Then  you  shall  go  on  the  ten  o'clock  train ;  there  is  no  other 
but  very  late." 

I  had  no  notion  of  leaving  Hiroshima  on  any  train,  but,  considering 
my  plans  no  affair  of  his,  1  held  my  peace.  He  departed  at  last  and 
a  moment  later  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  call  him  back  long  enough 
to  interpret  my  orders  to  the  matron  and  her  maid.  The  pair  re- 
fused to  leave  the  room.  When  I  pointed  at  the  door  they  waved 
their  hands  towards  the  bed  in  a  gesture  that  said  I  was  at  liberty  to 
disrobe  and  turn  in.  But  neither  rose  from  her  knees.  I  tried  more 
energetic  pantomime.  The  matron  certainly  understood,  for  she  dis- 
missed the  servant;  but  refused  herself  to  withdraw.  I  began  to  un- 
button my  jacket,  hoping  the  suggestion  would  prove  effective.  She 
sighed  audibly  and  settled  down  on  her  heels.  I  sat  down  on  my 
cushion  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  determined  to  smoke  her  out.  She 
drew  out  a  tobacco  pouch  and  a  pipe,  picked  the  cigarette  out  of  my 
fingers  to  light  the  first  filling,  and  blew  clouds  of  smoke  at  the  ceiling. 

Perhaps  she  was  waiting  to  tuck  me  in  when  once  I  was  abed.  The 
notion  seemed  ludicrous ;  yet  that  was  exactly  for  what  she  was  wait- 
ing. With  much  shouting  I  prevailed  upon  her  at  last  —  not  to 
leave  the  room,  but  to  turn  her  back  to  me.  Slipping  off  my  outer 
garments,  I  crawled  under  the  net  and  drew  the  coverlet  over  me. 
The  matron  rose  gravely  to  her  feet  and  marched  twice  round  my 
couch,  tucking  in  a  quilt  corner  here,  fastening  a  fold  of  the  kaya 
there.  Then,  closing  the  panels  on  every  side,  she  picked  up  the  lamp 
and  departed. 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  469 

The  room  soon  grew  stuffy.  I  crawled  out  to  push  back  one  of  the 
panels  opening  on  the  veranda.  Barely  had  I  regained  my  couch, 
however,  when  a  trembling  of  the  floor  announced  approaching  foot- 
steps and  that  irrepressible  female  appeared  on  the  balcony,  silhou- 
etted against  the  starlit  sky.  Calling  out  something  I  did  not  under- 
stand —  fortunately  perhaps  —  she  pushed  the  panel  shut  again.  I 
am  accustomed  to  sleep  with  wide  open  windows ;  but  it  was  use- 
less to  contend  against  fate.  My  guardian  angel  of  the  embonpoint 
knew  that  the  only  safe  sleeping  chamber  was  a  tightly-closed  room; 
and  in  such  I  spent  the  night. 

Rarely  have  I  experienced  a  stranger  sensation  than  at  the  mo- 
ment of  awakening  in  that  hotel  of  Hiroshima.  It  was  broad  day- 
light. The  sun  was  streaming  in  across  the  balcony,  and  the  inces- 
sant scraping  of  clogs  sounded  from  the  street  below.  But  the  room 
in  which  I  had  gone  to  bed  had  entirely  disappeared!  I  sat  up  with 
bulging  eyes.  Under  me  was  the  stack  of  quilts,  but  all  else  was 
changed.  The  net  was  gone  and  I  sat  alone  and  deserted  in  the 
center  of  a  hall  as  large  as  a  dancing  pavilion,  the  front  of  which 
for  its  entire  length  opened  on  the  public  street.  The  transforma- 
tion was  no  magician's  trick,  though  it  was  several  moments  before 
I  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  admit  it.  The  servant  girls  had  merely 
pushed  together  the  panels. 

For  all  the  sinuosities  of  her  streets  and  my  ignorance  of  the  Jap- 
anese tongue  I  had  no  great  difficulty  in  picking  up  the  highway  out 
of  Hiroshima.  A  half-century  ago  it  would  have  been  more  dan- 
gerous to  wander  unarmed  through  rural  Japan  than  in  China.  To- 
day the  pedestrian  runs  no  more  risk  than  in  England.  There  is  a 
suggestion  of  the  British  Isles,  too,  in  the  open  country  of  the  Island 
Kingdom.  Just  such  splendidly  constructed  highways  stretch  away 
between  bright  green  hedge  rows.  Populous  villages  appear  in  rapid 
succession;  the  intervening  territory,  thickly  settled  and  fertile,  shows 
the  hand  of  the  industrious  husbandman.  But  old  England  herself 
cannot  rival  this  sea-girdled  kingdom  in  her  clear,  exhilarating  air  of 
summer,  in  her  picturesque  landscapes  of  checkerboard  rice  fields, 
certainly  not  in  the  scenic  charm  of  the  Inland  Sea. 

The  roadway,  dropping  down  from  the  plateau  of  Hiroshima,  soon 
brought  to  view  this  sapphire-blue  arm  of  old  Ocean,  and  wound  in 
and  out  along  the  coast.  Here  and  there  a  ripple  caught  the  glint 
of  the  sun ;  in  the  middle  distance  and  beyond  tiny  wooded  isles  rose 
from  the  placid  surface;  now  and  again  an  ocean  liner,  awakening 


470     •  A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

memories  of  far-off  lands,  glided  by  almost  within  hailing  distance. 
In  shallow  coves  unclad  fishermen,  exempt  from  sunburn,  disen- 
tangled their  nets  and  heaped  high  their  catches  in  wicker  baskets. 

It  needed  a  very  few  hours  on  the  road  to  teach  me  that  Japan  is 
the  home  of  the  ultra-curious.  Compared  with  the  rural  Jap  the 
Arab  is  as  self-absorbed  as  a  cross-legged  statue  of  the  Enlightened 
One.  I  had  but  to  pass  through  a  village  to  suspend  every  activity 
the  place  boasted.  Workmen  dropped  their  tools,  children  forgot 
their  games,  girls  left  their  pitchers  at  the  fountain,  even  gossips 
ceased  their  chatter ;  all  to  stare  wide  eyed  if  I  passed  on,  to  crowd 
round  me  if  I  paused.  Wherever  I  halted  for  a  drink  of  water  the 
town  rose  en  masse  to  witness  my  unprecedented  action.  My  thirst 
quenched,  the  empty  vessel  passed  from  hand  to  hand  amid  such  a 
chorus  of  gasps  as  rises  from  a  group  of  lean-faced  antiquarians  ex- 
amining a  vase  of  ante-Christian  date.  To  stop  for  a  lunch  was  al- 
most dangerous,  for  the  mob  that  collected  at  the  entrance  to  the 
shop  threatened  to  do  me  to  death  under  the  trampling  clogs.  In 
the  smaller  villages  the  aggregate  population,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, followed  me  out  along  the  highway,  leaving  the  hamlet  as  de- 
serted as  though  the  dogs  of  war  had  been  loosed  upon  it.  Once  I 
passed  a  school  at  the  recess  hour.  Its  two  hundred  children  trailed 
behind  me  for  a  long  mile,  utterly  ignoring  the  jangling  bell  and  the 
shouts  of  their  excited  masters. 

Well  on  in  the  afternoon  I  had  taken  refuge  from  the  sun  in  a 
wayside  clump,  when  a  youthful  Jap,  of  short  but  stocky  build,  hurry- 
ing along  the  white  route,  turned  aside  and  gave  me  greeting.  There 
was  nothing  unusual  in  that  action;  a  dozen  times  during  the  day 
some  garrulous  native,  often  with  a  knowledge  of  English  picked 
up  during  Californian  residence,  had  tramped  a  mile  or  more  beside 
me.  But  the  stocky  youth  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  He  was  out  of  breath ;  the  perspiration  ran  in  streams 
along  his  brown  cheeks;  his  nether  garments  were  white  with  the 
dust  of  the  highroad.  Like  most  villagers  of  the  district  he  wore  a 
dark  kimona,  faintly  figured,  a  dull  brown  straw  hat  resembling  a 
Panama,  thumbed  socks,  and  grass  sandals.  Perhaps  his  haste  to 
overtake  me  had  been  prompted  merely  by  the  desire  to  travel  in  my 
company;  but  there  was  about  him  an  air  of  anxiety  that  awakened 
suspicion. 

I  set  off  again  and  he  jogged  along  beside  me,  mopping  his  stream- 
ing face  from  time  to  time  with  a  sleeve  of  his  kimona.     He  was 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  471 

more  supremely  ignorant  of  English  than  I  of  Japanese,  but  we  con- 
trived to  exchange  a  few  confidences  by  grunts  and  gestures.  He, 
too,  had  walked  from  Hiroshima.  The  statement  surprised  me,  for 
the  white  stones  at  the  wayside  showed  that  city  to  be  twenty-five 
miles  distant.  Enured  to  tramping  by  more  than  a  year  "  on  the  road," 
I  had  covered  the  distance  with  ease ;  but  it  was  no  pleasure  stroll  for 
an  undersized  Jap. 

Once  my  companion  pointed  from  his  legs  to  my  own,  raised  his  eye- 
brows, and  sighed  wearily.  I  shook  my  head.  He  pointed  away 
before  us  with  inquiring  gesture. 

"  Kobe,"  I  shouted. 

"  So  am  I,"  he  responded  by  repeating  the  name  and  thumping 
himself  on  the  chest. 

I  knew  he  was  lying.  Kobe  was  more  than  a  hundred  miles  away ; 
third-class  fare  is  barely  a  sen  a  mile  In  Japan;  it  is  far  cheaper  to 
ride  than  to  buy  food  sufficient  to  sustain  life  on  such  a  journey. 
The  fellow  was  no  beggar,  for  we  had  already  toasted  each  other  in 
a  glass  of  sakL  Certainly  he  was  not  covetous  of  the  yens  in  my 
pocket,  for  he  was  small  and  apparently  unarmed,  and  there  was 
nothing  of  the  footpad  in  his  face  or  manner.  Yet  he  seemed  fear- 
ful of  losing  sight  of  me.  When  I  stopped,  he  stopped;  if  I  strode 
rapidly  forward,  he  struggled  to  keep  the  pace,  passing  a  sleeve  over 
his  face  at  more  frequent  intervals. 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  a  "  plain  clothes  cop  "  sent  to  shadow  me  ? 
The  suspicion  grew  with  every  mile;  it  was  confirmed  when  we  en- 
tered a  long  straggling  village.  My  companion  dropped  back  a  bit 
and,  as  we  passed  a  police  station,  I  caught  him  waving  a  surreptitious 
greeting  to  four  officers  in  uniform,  who  nodded  approval. 

A  spy!  What  reason  had  the  police  of  Japan  to  dog  my  foot- 
steps ?  My  anger  rose  at  the  implied  insult.  The  fellow  was  urging  me 
to  stop  for  the  night;  instead  I  redoubled  my  pace.  Not  far  beyond 
the  route  forked,  and,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  his  protests,  I  chose  the 
branch  that  led  away  over  steep  foothills.  The  short  legs  of  the  Jap 
were  unequal  to  the  occasion.  He  broke  into  a  dog  trot  and  puffed 
along  behind  me.  His  grass  sandals  wore  through;  he  winced  when 
a  pebble  rolled  under  his  feet.  Night  came  on,  the  moon  rose;  and 
still  I  marched  with  swinging  stride,  the  little  brown  man  panting  at 
my  heels. 

Three  hours  after  sunset,  amid  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the  shout- 
ing of  humans,  I  stalked  into  the  village  of  Hongo  and  sat  down  ia 


472      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  doorway  of  an  open  shop.  A  moment  later  the  spy,  reeHng«  Hke 
an  inebriate,  his  face  drawn  and  haggard,  dropped  at  full  length  on 
the  matting  beside  me.  His  endurance  was  exhausted;  and  small 
wonder,  for  Hiroshima  was  forty-six  miles  away  over  the  hills. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  we  were  surrounded  by  a  surging  throng 
of  dirty  yokels.  For  Hongo  is  a  mere  mountain  hamlet  and  its  in- 
habitants do  not  practice  all  the  virtues  for  which  their  fellow  country- 
men are  noted.  To  stay  where  we  were  was  to  court  annihilation  by 
the  stampeding  multitude.  I  struggled  to  my  feet  determined  to  press 
on.  The  spy  screamed  weakly  and  the  villagers  swept  in  upon  us  and 
imprisoned  me  within  the  shop.  A  long  conference  ensued.  Then 
the  spy,  leaning  on  two  men,  hobbled  up  the  street,  while  another  band, 
promising  by  gestures  to  find  me  lodging,  dragged  me  along  with 
them,  the  mob  howling  at  our  heels. 

The  fourth  or  fifth  booth  beyond  proved  to  be  an  inn,  a  most  un- 
Japanese  house,  for  it  was  squalid  and  dirty.  The  frightened  keeper 
bade  us  enter  and  set  a  half-dozen  slatternly  females  to  preparing 
suppet-.  The  entire  village  population  had  gathered  in  the  street  to 
watch  my  every  movement  with  straining  eyes.  I  sat  down  on  a 
stool  and  it  smashed  to  bits  under  me.  A  clawing,  screaming  mob 
swept  forward  to  roar  at  my  discomfiture.  A  half  hundred  of  the 
boldest  pushed  into  the  shop  in  spite  of  the  keeper's  protest  and  drove 
me  further  and  further  towards  the  back  of  the  building,  until  I  was 
forced  to  beat  them  off  to  save  myself  being  pushed  through  the  rear 
wall.  A  woman  brought  me  rice.  The  boors  fought  with  each  other 
for  the  privilege  of  being  the  first  to  thrust  their  fingers  into  it. 
Another  servant  poured  out  tea.  The  villagers  snatched  the  cup  from 
my  fingers  before  I  had  drunk  half  the  contents,  and  passed  it  from 
hand  to  hand.  A  third  domestic  appeared  with  a  saucer  of  baked 
minnows.  Each  of  a  half-dozen  of  my  persecutors  picked  up  a  fish 
in  his  fingers  and  attempted  to  thrust  it  into  my  mouth.  They  had 
no  notion  that  such  conduct  was  annoying.  It  was  merely  their  way 
of  showing  hospitality. 

The  throng  at  the  doorway  surged  slowly  but  steadily  nearer.  I 
caught  up  several  clogs  from  the  floor  and  threw  them  at  the  front 
rank  of  the  rabble.  The  multitude  fell  back  into  the  street,  but  my 
immediate  entourage  continued  to  snatch  cups  from  my  fingers  and  to 
poke  me  in  the  face  with  baked  minnows.  Vocal  protest  was  useless. 
I  picked  up  the  bowl  of  rice  and  flung  the  contents  into  their  faces. 
This  time  the  affectionate  fellows  understood.     When  the  dish  was 


A  Japanese  lady 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  473 

filled  again  they  granted  me  elbow-room  sufficient  to  continue  my 
meal. 

A  saner  man  might  have  profited  by  experience  and  taken  care  not 
to  re-arouse  the  waning  curiosity.  In  a  thoughtless  moment  I  filled 
my  pipe.  Before  it  was  lighted  I  suddenly  recalled  that  "  bulldog  " 
pipes  have  not  been  introduced  into  Japan.  But  it  was  too  late.  A 
hoarse  murmur  sounded  in  the  street,  like  the  rumble  of  far-of¥  thun- 
der at  first,  then  swelling  louder  and  louder;  and  with  a  deafening 
roar  the  astonished  multitude  surged  pellmell  into  the  shop,  shriek- 
ing, scratching,  tearing  kimonas,  trampling  pottery  under  their  clogs, 
bowling  over  the  guardian  shopkeeper,  sweeping  me  off  my  feet,  and 
landing  me  high  and  dry  on  a  chest  against  the  rear  wall.  It  required 
a  quarter-hour  of  fighting  to  drive  them  out  again  into  the  night  and 
nothing  short  of  grapeshot  could  have  cleared  the  street  before  the 
building  as  long  as  there  remained  a  possibility  of  once  more  catch- 
ing sight  of  that  giant  pipe. 

I  took  good  care  to  keep  it  out  of  sight  thereafter;  but  the  multi- 
tude had  not  visibly  diminished  when,  towards  midnight,  I  signed  to 
the  proprietor  that  I  was  ready  to  retire.  The  inn  boasted  only  one 
sleeping-chamber,  a  raised  platform  in  one  corner  of  the  room  car- 
peted with  grass  mats  and  partitioned  off  with  dirty  curtains  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling.  This  foul-smelling  apartment  I  was  forced 
to  share  with  a  dozen  men  and  boys,  odoriferous  and  ragged,  who 
chattered  like  excited  apes  for  an  hour  after  I  had  lain  down.  All 
night  long  I  was  on  exhibition.  For  when  my  companions  were  not 
striking  matches  to  study  my  physical  and  sartorial  make-up,  the  pro- 
prietor outside  was  raising  a  corner  of  the  curtain  to  display  me  to 
a  group  of  gabbling  rustics. 

Profiting  by  experience,  the  police  authorities  did  not  set  one  man 
the  task  of  following  me  all  the  next  day.  The  first  of  a  relay  of 
spies  overtook  me  at  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  He  was  long  and 
lean,  and  for  ten  miles  he  stalked  along  several  yards  behind  me, 
making  no  attempt  to  cultivate  my  acquaintance.  At  the  first  large 
village  he  was  relieved  by  a  stocky  youth  of  more  sociable  disposition, 
who  walked  at  my  side  and  offered  to  "  set  'em  up  "  in  a  roadside 
saki  shop  at  least  once  in  every  mile.  As  often  I  halted  to  watch 
some  native  craftsman.  In  one  tiny  hamlet  a  dozen  women  and  girls, 
all  naked  above  the  waist  line,  were  weaving  reed  mats  in  an  open 
hovel.  Far  from  objecting  to  my  curiosity,  they  invited  us  to  enter 
and  placed  ragged  cushions  for  our  accommodation.     Before  we  were 


474      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

seated  the  head  of  the  estabHshment  began  to  chatter.  She  was  well 
past  middle  age  and  of  the  form  of  a  well-stu fifed  grain  sack, —  just 
the  type  of  human  that  can  talk  for  an  unlimited  period  without  any- 
thing to  talk  about.  The  Japanese  word  for  "  yes  "  along  the  shores 
of  the  Inland  Sea  is  **  ha."  It  was  the  only  reply  which  my  com- 
panion found  opportunity  to  interject  into  the  conversation,  and  for 
a  full  half-hour  he  sat  crosslegged  on  his  cushion,  observing  at  regu- 
lar intervals  and  with  funereal  countenance :  — "  ha  !  —  ha !  ha  1  ha  !  — 
ha!  ha!  — ha!" 

A  few  miles  beyond  he  retired  in  favor  of  a  much  older  man  whose 
penchant  was  to  be  taciturn  and  stealthy  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty. 
Anxiously  he  strove  to  impress  upon  me  that  he  was  traveling  in  my 
direction  by  merest  chance.  If  I  halted,  he  marched  past  me  with  an 
expression  of  total  self-absorption  and  slipped  into  some  hiding-place 
a  few  yards  down  the  highway  until  I  went  on.  There  was  relief 
from  the  monotony  of  tramping  in  concocting  schemes  to  shake  him 
off,  but  every  such  attempt  failed.  If  I  slipped  into  a  shop  to  run 
out  the  back  door,  the  howling  of  the  pursuing  multitude  betrayed  me ; 
if  I  dashed  suddenly  off  into  a  wayside  forest,  I  succeeded  in  rousing 
the  spy  to  feminine  shrieks  of  dismay,  but  before  I  could  cover  a 
mile  he  was  again  at  my  heels.  In  the  afternoon  I  abandoned  the 
road  and  darted  away  up  a  mountain  path.  At  the  summit  I  came 
upon  a  temple  and  a  deep  blue  lake  framed  in  tangled  forests.  This 
time,  apparently,  I  had  outwitted  my  shadower.  I  threw  ofif  my 
clothes  and  plunged  in  for  a  swim.  When  I  regained  the  bank,  the 
spy,  panting  and  dripping  with  perspiration,  lay  on  his  back  in  a  shady 
thicket  beside  my  garments. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  and  the  fourth  lap  in  the  police  relay  when  a 
man  pushed  his  way  through  a  village  mob  that  surrounded  me  and 
greeted  me  in  a  jargon  that  bore  some  resemblance  to  my  native 
tongue.  I  sat  down  by  a  shop  door  to  rest,  and  for  a  half-hour  the  fel- 
low plied  me  with  questions  in  near-English,  with  a  sullen  scowl  and  an 
arrogant  manner  that  said  as  plainly  as  words  that  he  had  a  decidedly 
low  opinion  of  white  men.  His  comprehension  of  my  remarks  was 
by  no  means  complete ;  his  interpretation  of  them  to  the  gaping  throng 
was  probably  even  less  lucid.  About  all  he  seemed  to  gather  was 
that  I  was  traveling  on  foot,  from  which  he  concluded  that  I  was 
penniless. 

I  rose  to  depart  and  he  caught  me  by  an  arm. 

"  So  you  tramp?  "  he  cried.    "  One  time  me  go  States.    Many  time 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  475 

see  tramp.  In  States  tramp  many  time  hungry.  Not  in  Japan.  Jap 
man  all  good;  give  plenty.     Wait.     I  make  you  present." 

Having  found  his  people  the  least  lovable  and  by  far  the  most 
selfish  on  the  globe,  I  awaited  the  proposed  benefaction  w^ith  great 
curiosity.  The  fellow  turned  and  harangued  the  gathering  at  great 
length.  His  hearers  crowded  up  to  give  me  congratulatory  slaps  on 
the  back.  I  expected  to  have  at  least  a  ticket  to  my  own  land  forced 
upon  me.  Having  published  his  generosity  to  the  four  winds,  the 
charitable  fellow  set  the  cavalcade  in  motion  and  marched  down  the 
street  at  my  side. 

"Jap  man  ver'  good,"  he  reiterated,  while  his  admirers  beamed 
upon  me.  "  You  damn  tramp.  No  business  in  Japan,  but  ver' 
hungry.     Me  give  you  this." 

He  opened  his  hand  and  displayed  a  copper  sen. 

Being  covetous  of  the  half-cent  as  a  souvenir  of  Japanese  generos- 
ity, I  stretched  out  a  hand  for  it.  The  philanthropist  snatched  his 
own  away. 

"  Not  give  money  to  damn  tramp !  "  he  cried.  "  Wait  for  shop.  Me 
buy  you  two  rice  cakes." 

Rice  cakes  being  valueless  as  souvenirs,  I  rejected  the  kind  offer 
and  left  the  cavalcade  to  chatter  their  astonishment. 

The  village  was  long.  A  half-mile  beyond  I  stopped  at  a  shop 
and  ordered  supper,  the  price  of  which  amounted  to  six  cents.  A 
great  hubbub  soon  arose  in  the  street  outside,  and,  before  the  meal 
was  served,  my  would-be  benefactor,  red-eyed  with  rage,  fought  his 
way  into  the  booth. 

''Why  you  tell  you  have  no  money?"  he  bellowed. 

I  denied  having  made  any  such  statement. 

"  But  you  walk  by  the  feet !  "  he  screamed.  "  Me  going  to  give 
you  one  sen  because  you  not  starve.  You  run  way  and  buy  dinner 
like  rich  man.     You  damn  tramp,  try  be  thief  — " 

I  rose  and  kicked  him  into  the  street.  His  physical  courage  was 
on  a  par  with  his  philanthropy.  But  his  bellowing  of  my  alleged 
perfidy  aroused  great  anger  in  the  gathering,  and  I  was  all  but  mobbed 
when  I  left  the  shop. 

The  half-mountainous  scenery,  the  rampant  curiosity  of  villagers, 
and  the  spy  relay  continued  for  two  days  more,  at  the  end  of  which 
I  turned  in  at  the  Sailors'  Home  of  Kobe.  Among  the  cosmopolitan 
beachcombers  who  spun  their  yarns  in  the  back  yard  of  the  in- 
stitution was  one  victim  of  the  Wanderlust  whose  misfortunes  are 


476      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

rarely  equaled  even  in  the  vagabond  world.  He  was  a  youth  of 
twenty,  son  of  an  Italian  father  and  a  Japanese  mother.  In  early 
childhood  —  his  mother  having  died  —  he  had  returned  with  his  fa- 
ther to  Naples.  Ten  years  later  a  tavern  brawl  left  him  an  orphan; 
utterly  so,  for  never  had  he  heard  a  hint  of  the  existence  of  parental 
relatives. 

Driven  from  the  garret  that  had  been  his  home,  he  joined  the  waifs 
that  prowl  among  the  garbage  heaps  of  the  Italian  metropolis  until 
he  had  grown  large  enough  to  ship  as  a  mozso  on  a  coasting  steamer. 
With  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship  came  a  longing  to  visit  the  land 
of  his  birth.  He  joined  the  crew  of  an  East-Indiaman  and  "  jumped 
her  "  in  Kobe. 

In  the  long  interim,  however,  he  had  utterly  forgotten  the  language 
of  his  childhood.  English  would  have  served  him  well  enough,  but 
unlike  most  seamen  he  had  picked  up  barely  a  word  of  that  tongue. 
His  Italian  was  fluent,  but  it  was  Neapolitan  Italian,  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  there  were  a  dozen  men  in  all  Japan  who  understood  that 
dialect.  A  man  suddenly  struck  deaf,  and  dumb  could  not  have  found 
himself  in  sadder  straits.  There  were  European  residents  in  the 
suburban  villas  of  Kobe,  there  were  generous  tourists  in  her  shops 
and  hotels;  but  it  was  useless  to  tell  them  hard-luck  tales  in  a 
language  they  could  not  understand.  The  Italian  consul  drove  him 
off  with  wrathful  words,  indignant  at  the  attempted  imposition  of  a 
masquerading  Jap.  The  Japanese  were  even  less  inclined  to  give 
succor  to  one  who,  in  features  a  fellow  countryman,  aped  the  white 
man  in  garb  and  refused  to  speak  the  native  tongue. 

Under  the  weight  of  his  calamities,  the  half-breed  —  tainted,  per- 
haps, with  the  fatalism  of  the  East  —  had  degenerated  into  a  grovel- 
ing, cadaverous  wretch,  who  cowered  by  day  in  a  corner  of  the  yard 
of  the  Home  and  crawled  away  by  night  into  noisome  hiding  places. 
From  time  to  time  he  contrived  to  get  arrested,  but  the  police  were 
cruelly  lenient  and  soon  drove  him  forth  again  into  a  world  that 
denied  him  even  prison  fare. 

I  had  not  been  an  hour  in  the  Home  when  a  servant  summoned  me 
to  the  office.     The  superintendent  and  two  police  officers  awaited  me. 

"  Say,  Franck,"  began  the  former,  '*  I  hope  that  story  you  told  me 
was  on  the  level  ?    The  cops  have  it  you  Ve  a  Russian." 

"  You  came  last  night  ?  You  walked  from  Hiroshima  ?  "  demanded 
one  of  the  officers. 

"  Right  you  are,"  I  answered. 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  477 

"  This  is  the  one/'  he  continued,  turning  to  the  superintendent, 
"  The  police  followed  him  from  Hiroshima.  He  is  a  Russian,  they 
telegraph  me." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  manager ;  "  He  's  an  American." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  queried  the  second  officer.  "  He  wears  even  a 
Russian  uniform." 

A  light  broke  in  upon  me.  No  wonder  I  had  been  so  popular  with 
the  police  for  four  days  past. 

"  Russian  nothing,"  I  answered.  ''  This  is  an  American  uniform 
from  the  Philippines." 

"Just  the  kind  the  Russians  wear,"  objected  the  officer,  stretching 
out  a  hand  to  feel  the  texture  of  my  jacket.  **  How,  Mr.  Manager, 
do  you  know  he  is  an  American  ?  " 

"  By  his  talk,  of  course,"  replied  the  superintendent. 

"  But  you  are  an  Englishman,"  retorted  the  detective. 

"  Just  the  reason  I  can  tell  an  American,"  responded  the  manager. 

"  Here !     Look  these  over,"  I  put  in,  producing  my  papers. 

The  officers,  however,  were  unreasonably  skeptical  and  not  only 
discussed  the  documents  at  great  length  but  insisted  on  inscribing 
in  their  notebooks  a  very  detailed  account  of  my  movements  since 
entering  the  country.  It  was  all  too  evident  that  they  did  not  believe 
that  I  traveled  on  foot  by  choice;  and  as  long  as  I  remained  in  Kobe 
I  was  conscious  of  being  shadowed  each  time  I  left  the  Home. 

On  my  third  day  in  the  city  I  rose  early  and  passed  out  along  the 
highway  to  the  eastward.  The  police,  evidently,  had  been  caught 
napping,  for  no  spy  overtook  me,  and  by  noonday  I  was  wandering 
through  the  maze  of  streets  and  canals  of  Osaka.  My  presence  in 
that  city  was  soon  known,  however,  for  an  interpreter  sought  me  out 
in  the  early  evening  at  the  inn  to  which  I  had  retired.  As  if  his 
quizzing  were  not  sufficient,  a  second  officer  aroused  me  at  dawn  and 
not  only  put  me  through  the  usual  catechism  but  followed  at  my 
heels  until  I  had  entered  the  precincts  of  the  railway  station.  There 
two  officers  dragged  me  into  their  booth  and  subjected  me  to  a  cross- 
examination  the  length  of  which  caused  me  to  miss  the  second  train 
I  had  hoped  to  catch. 

Luckily  the  service  was  frequent.  I  purchased  a  ticket  to  Kyoto 
and  boarded  the  ten  o'clock  express.  Barely  had  I  settled  down  in 
my  seat,  however,  when  two  officers  dashed  into  the  car. 

"  The  police  captain  say  you  come  police  station !  "  cried  one  of 
them,  catching  me  by  the  arm.     "  Captain  like  speak  you." 


478      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  The  captain  be  blowed !  "  I  answered,  pushing  him  away. 
"  You  come !     Captain  say  not  go  with  this  train ! "   shouted  the 
officer. 

His  companion  came  to  his  assistance  and  the  pair  laid  hands  on 
me.  I  braced  my  knees  against  the  back  of  the  next  seat  and  let  them 
pull.  In  the  Western  world  we  hear  much  of  jiu-jitsu  and  the  phys- 
ical prowess  of  the  Japanese.  As  for  her  policemen,  and  this  was 
but  one  of  many  a  personal  encounter  they  forced  upon  me,  it  was 
never  my  misfortune  to  meet  one  with  more  strength  than  a  school- 
girl. For  fully  five  minutes  the  pair  tugged  and  yanked  at  my  arms 
and  legs;  but  not  once  during  that  time  was  I  in  the  least  danger  of 
being  dragged  from  my  seat. 

The  pair  held  the  trump  card,  however,  for  they  forbade  the  ex- 
press to  move  while  I  remained  on  board.  I  took  pity  on  my  fellow 
passengers,  therefore,  and,  pushing  the  pair  aside,  followed  them 
into  the  station.  In  the  first-class  waiting-room  they  arranged  a  Mor- 
ris chair  for  my  accommodation,  brought  me  several  English  news- 
papers and  a  packet  of  cigarettes,  and,  requesting  me  to  remain  until 
they  returned,  hurried  away.  There  were  several  policemen  in  the 
square  outside,  however,  who  peered  in  upon  me  from  time  to  time. 

I  had  been  reading  nearly  an  hour  when  another  interpreter  stepped 
into  the  room. 

"  The  police  captain  have  sent  me,"  he  announced,  with  a  concilia- 
tory smile,  "  to  say  that  you  are  not  the  man  which  he  think  and  that 
you  can  go  when  you  are  care  to." 

I  caught  the  fourth  train  and  reached  Kyoto  in  the  early  after- 
noon —  and  was  immediately  arrested.  In  short,  not  a  day  passed 
during  the  rest  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  except  in  the  open  ports, 
that  I  was  not  taken  into  custody  several  times.  Every  officer  to 
clap  eyes  on  my  khaki-clad  figure  was  sure  to  demand  my  surrender, 
convinced  that  to  his  eagle  eye  his  country  owed  its  preservation.  It 
was  never  difficult  to  shake  off  a  pair  of  officers,  a  few  slaps  always 
sufficed;  but,  unlike  other  Orientals,  they  did  not  run  away.  They 
dogged  my  footsteps  into  temples  and  bazaars,  through  shrieking  slum 
sections,  down  alleyways  reeking  with  refuse,  until  an  interpreter  came 
to  establish  my  nationality. 

I  spent  a  day  in  Kyoto  and  could  have  spent  many  more  with 
pleasure.  At  the  station  next  morning  four  yen  more  than  sufficed 
for  a  ticket  to  Tokyo,  with  unlimited  stop-overs.  At  Maibara  a  squad 
of  Russian  prisoners,  garbed  in  Arctic  cloaks  and  fur  caps,  huddled 


i-hy^ 


I 

I 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  479 

in  a  sweltering  group  on  the  platform.  As  long  as  the  train  halted 
not  the  hint  of  a  jeer  rose  from  the  surrounding  multitude,  and  the 
townspeople  came  in  continual  procession  to  offer  the  stolid  fellows 
baskets  of  fruit,  packets  of  tobacco,  and  all  manner  of  delicacies.  I 
left  the  train  at  Nagoya,  third  city  of  the  kingdom,  in  which  the  chief 
point  of  interest  is  a  great  castle,  at  that  season  the  residence  of 
hundreds  of  Russian  prisoners. 

Among  the  few  guests  at  the  inn  to  which  I  turned  at  nightfall  was 
an  invalided  sergeant,  nearly  recovered  from  two  bullet  wounds  re- 
ceived in  Manchuria.  A  paper  panel  separated  his  room  from  my  own. 
We  pushed  it  aside  and  shared  a  double-sized  chamber.  From  the 
moment  of  our  meeting  the  sergeant  was  certain  that  I  was  a  Rus- 
sian. Gestures  of  protest  and  innumerable  repetitions  of  the  word 
"  America j  in  "  did  not  alter  his  conviction  in  the  least.  Too  well  he 
knew  the  czar's  uniform  and  the  cast  of  features  of  the  "  Moosky !  " 

We  conversed  almost  uninterruptedly  for  three  hours,  during  which 
time  barely  a  word  passed  our  lips.  Certainly  the  sergeant  must  have 
been  an  actor  in  his  preliminary  days,  for  there  was  no  thought  nor 
opinion  so  complex  that  he  could  not  express  it  clearly  and  concisely 
in  pantomime.  Rendered  into  English  his  gestures  and  grimaces  ran 
as  follows:  — 

*'  Well,  you  are  a  nervy  fellow,  yes,  indeed !  I  suppose  you  're 
only  an  escaped  prisoner ;  but  you  '11  be  shot  as  a  spy  the  moment  you  're 
found  out.  You  're  not  a  Russian  ?  Nonsense !  Don't  spring  any 
such  yarns  on  me.  I  've  seen  too  many  of  you  fellows.  You  may  fool 
these  unsophisticated  stay-at-homes,  but  I  know  you  as  I  should  know 
my  own  father.  So  would  any  of  the  boys  who  have  been  to  the 
front.  Oh,  come,  stop  it !  It 's  no  use  telling  me  you  're  an  American. 
Tell  that  to  the  civilians  and  the  policemen,  the  blockheads.  It 's  a 
mighty  fine  joke  on  them.  But  we  're  alone  now ;  let 's  be  honest. 
You  need  n't  be  in  the  least  afraid  of  me.  I  'm  on,  but  I  would  n't  peach 
for  the  world.  But  I  'm  afraid  your  scheme  won't  work.  There  is 
not  another  man  besides  myself  in  Nagoya  who  would  keep  your 
secret.  The  first  schoolboy  or  old  woman  to  find  you  out  will  run 
his  legs  ofif  to  tfll  the  police.  You  can  bank  on  that.  A  year  ago, 
before  I  'd  seen  the  world,  I  was  as  big  a  tattle-tale  as  the  rest ;  but 
I  take  a  more  cosmopolitan  view  of  life  since  I  got  these  scars,  and  I 
can  sympathize  with  a  man  now  even  if  his  skin  is  white." 

The  police  interpreter  came  at  this  point  to  take  my  deposition, 
and  the  sergeant  preserved  a  noncommittal  gravity  during  the  inter- 


48o      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

view,  though  he  winked  twice  or  thrice  as  the  poHceman  bent  over  his 
notebook.  When  the  visitor  was  gone,  the  soldier  took  up  the  story 
of  his  army  Hfe.  It  was  a  gesticulatory  epic,  rich  in  detail,  amusing 
in  incident.  From  the  parting  with  his  parents  he  carried  me  along 
with  him  through  the  training  camp  of  recruits,  across  the  Sea  of 
Japan  on  a  crowded  transport,  into  the  winter-bound  bivouac  in 
Manchuria,  on  cruel  forced  marches  to  the  northward,  into  many  a 
raging  battle,  to  the  day  when  he  fell  helpless  in  the  bottom  of  a 
trench^  His  musket  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  used  it  often 
in  the  story  and  took  great  delight  in  assuring  me  that  it  had  sent 
many  of  what  he  considered  my  fellow-countrymen  to  their  final 
reckoning.  He  imitated  their  death  throes  with  striking  realism,  roll- 
ing about  the  floor  with  twitching  limbs  and  distorted  features,  chok- 
ing and  gasping  as  a  man  does  in  the  last  struggle.  In  comedy  he  was 
as  effective  as  in  tragedy.  His  caricature  of  a  Russian  at  his  prayers 
was  a  histrionic  masterpiece ;  his  knowledge  of  the  "  Moosky  "  service 
as  exact  as  that  of  a  patriarch. 

We  turned  in  towards  midnight  and  parted  in  the  morning  the  best 
of  friends.  From  Nagoya  the  railway  turned  southward,  and,  fol- 
lowing the  old  royal  highway  along  the  coast  of  the  main  island,  gave 
us  frequent  glimpses  of  the  ocean.  The  country  grew  less  mountain- 
ous, often  there  were  miles  of  unbroken  paddy  fields  in  which  uncount- 
able peasant  women  wallowed  in  the  inundated  mire,  clawing  with 
bare  hands  the  mud  about  the  roots  of  the  rice  plants.  On  the  slopes, 
too  steep  to  be  flooded,  long  rows  of  tea  bushes  stretched  from  the 
railway  line  to  the  wooded  summits. 

I  tired  of  riding  at  four  and  dropped  off  at  Numadzu,  a  village  of 
fishermen  where  the  inhabitants  to  this  day,  I  fear,  remember  me  as 
the  most  unobliging  of  mortals.  My  host  spoke  some  English.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  his  linguistic  accomplishment,  I  requested  him  to 
prepare  a  bath.  A  servant  placed  and  filled  a  tub  in  the  center  of  the 
inn  courtyard.  I  had  begun  to  disrobe  when  a  panel  was  pushed 
aside  and  into  the  patio  stalked  a  dozen  men  and  women,  the  land- 
lord at  their  head. 

"  Here !  "  I  protested ;  *'  I  thought  this  was  a  bath  room  ?  " 

"  Sure !  Bath  room,  a'  right,"  returned  my  host.  "  Go  'head,  make 
bath." 

*'  Are  you  crazy? "  I  demanded.  "  Drive  those  women  out  of  here 
until  I  have  finished  bathing !  " 


The  castle  of  Nagoya,  in  which  many  Russian  prisoners  were  kept 


Laying  out  fish  to  dry  along  the  river  in  Tokio. 
principally  on  fish  and  rice 


Japan  lives 


WANDERING  IN  JAPAN  481 

"  Why  for  ?  "  inquired  the  Jap,  while  the  company  squatted  along 
the  wall. 

I  explained  my  objections  and  pushed  them  out  one  by  one.  The 
proprietor  was  the  last  to  go. 

"  Why  for  you  so  damn  selfish?  "  he  growled.  "  Why  you  not  make 
bath  if  ladies  here  ?  They  not  hurt  you.  They  come  see  if  you  white 
all  over.  You  come  see  ladies  make  bath  they  not  give  damn  kick. 
Damn  selfish  American !  " 

I  closed  the  panels  and  returned  to  my  tub.  But  the  curiosity  of 
the  unselfish  ladies  was  not  so  easily  overcome.  As  I  ceased  my 
splashing  a  moment,  a  poorly  suppressed  cough  sounded  above  me,  and 
I  looked  up  to  see  the  entire  party  gazing  down  upon  me  from  an 
upper  balcony.  I  caught  up  a  cobblestone  and  they  withdrew;  but, 
though  callers  innumerable  dropped  in  during  the  evening,  the  pro- 
prietor never  tired  of  relating  the  story  of  my  unprecedented  selfish- 
ness. 

Two  policemen  interviewed  me  on  my  way  to  the  station  next  morn- 
ing, a  third  was  in  waiting  when  I  descended  at  the  village  of  Go- 
temba,  and  a  spy  dogged  my  footsteps  during  the  day's  tramp  among 
the  foothills  of  Fujiyama.  It  is  the  ambition  of  the  Mikado's  gov- 
ernment to  "  keep  tab "  on  every  foreigner  from  the  day  of  his 
arrival  in  the  country  until  his  departure ;  and  local  officers  strive  dili- 
gently to  supply  the  information  demanded.  But  the  system  is  some- 
thing of  a  farce.  The  most  tolerant  tourist  is  apt  to  tire  of  being 
incessantly  interviewed  and,  in  a  spirit  of  retaliation  or  merely  for  the 
sake  of  variety,  to  try  his  hand  at  fiction.  As  for  beachcombers, 
there  are  few  indeed  who  do  not  take  delight  in  weaving  "  fairy  tales  " 
for  gullible  officials. 

In  the  open  ports  of  Japan  I  scraped  acquaintance  with  more  than 
a  score  of  white  sailors  who  had  journeyed  across  the  country  afoot 
or  "  on  the  cushions."  They  passed  for  Americans,  nearly  every 
man  of  them,  though  three-fourths  were  Europeans  and  at  least  four, 
to  my  knowledge,  Russians.  But  the  point  of  nationality  aside,  there 
was  not  one  of  them  who  told  police  interpreters  the  same  story  twice. 
The  Jap  finds  great  difficulty  in  pronouncing  the  letter  "  L."  Jocular 
beachcombers  of  my  acquaintance  swore  on  their  discharge  books 
that  they  had  lain  awake  nights  to  piece  together  names  unpronounce- 
able for  the  next  policeman.  Hence  it  was  that  the  traveler  who  an- 
nounced himself  at   one  station   as   "  Alfred   Leland   from   Lincoln- 


482      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

lane,"  assured  the  officers  of  the  next  that  he  was  "  Lolo  Lipland 
Longlock  from  Los  Angeles."  It  mattered  little  what  the  wanderer 
dubbed  himself;  a  police  interpreter  could  not  tell  an  American  from 
a  Zulu  name,  and  though  "  Lolo  Lipland  Longlock  "  spoke  only  a  half- 
hundred  words  of  English,  the  name,  alleged  nationality,  and  "  fairy 
tale  "  were  solemnly  inscribed  on  the  records.  That  was  well  enough 
for  the  gullible  interpreter ;  but  what  of  the  puzzled  government  book- 
keeper at  Tokyo,  who  poured  over  volumes  of  reports  from  the  rural 
districts,  seeking  in  vain  to  find  out  what  had  become  of  "  Alfred  Le- 
land  of  Lincolnlane  ?  " 

I  reached  Yokohama  that  night  and,  having  deposited  my  bundle  in 
the  Sailors'  Home,  continued  next  day  to  Tokyo.  Financially  I  was 
near  the  end  of  my  rope.  My  daily  expenditures  in  Japan  had  barely 
averaged  twenty-five  cents;  but  even  at  that  rate  the  fortune  arising 
from  the  gratitude  of  the  "  jungle  king  "  of  Kung  Chow  and  the  gener- 
osity of  the  Fausang's  captain  had  been  gradually  dissipated.  Bank- 
ruptcy mattered  little  now,  however,  for  Tokyo  was  the  last  city  in 
my  itinerary.  Once  back  in  Yokohama,  it  would  be  strange  if  I  could 
not  soon  sign  on  some  craft  homeward  bound.  I  squandered  the 
seven  yen  that  remained,  therefore,  in  three  days  of  riotous  living  in 
the  capital;  and,  on  a  morning  of  late  July,  wandered  out  along  the 
highway  to  the  neighboring  port. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HOMEWARD   BOUND 

THERE  was  preaching  and  singing  in  the  Sailors'  Home  of 
Yokohama  on  the  evening  of  my  arrival.  The  white-bearded 
missionary  styled  the  service  a  "  mass  meeting  for  Christ." 
The  beachcombers  in  attendance  were  not  those  to  cavil  at  names. 
So  long  as  they  were  permitted  to  doze  away  the  evening  in  comfort- 
able chairs,  **  holy  Joe  "  might  assign  any  reason  he  chose  for  their  pres- 
ence, though  there  were  those  near  me  at  the  back  of  the  room  who 
grumbled  now  and  then  at  the  monotonous  voice  that  disturbed  their 
dreams. 

No  such  protest,  certainly,  rose  to  the  lips  of  the  herculanean 
Chilian  with  whom  I  had  fallen  in  during  the  afternoon,  for  what- 
ever his  inner  feelings,  they  were  stifled  by  his  deep-rooted  respect 
for  religious  services.  One  by  one,  the  beachcombers  drifted  oiit 
into  the  less  strident  night;  but  the  South  American  clung  to  his 
place  as  he  would  have  stuck  to  his  lookout  in  a  tempestuous  sea. 
Had  "  holy  Joe  "  been  gifted  with  a  commonplace  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things  he  might  have  held  one  hearer  until  the  benediction.  Late 
in  the  evening,  however,  he  broke  off  his  absorbing  dissertation  on 
the  Oneness  of  the  Trinity  to  assign  a  hymn,  and,  stepping  down  among 
us,  fell  to  distributing  pledges  of  the  "  Royal  Naval  Temperance  So- 
ciety." 

"  Valgame  Dios !  "  breathed  the  Chilian,  as  a  pamphlet  dropped  into 
his  lap.  "  He  asks  me  to  sign  the  pledge,  me,  who  have  n't  had  the 
price  of  a  thimbleful  in  two  months!  This  is  too  much!  Vamonos, 
hombre !  "  and,  stepping  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  he  stalked  to  the 
door. 

In  the  darkness  outside,  a  cringing  creature  accosted  us.  Some- 
thing in  the  whining  Italian  in  which  he  spoke  led  me  to  look  more 
closely  at  him.  It  was  the  Neapolitan  half-caste;  more  ragged  and 
woe-begone  than  ever,  and  smudged  with  the  dust  of  the  coal  bunkers 
in  which  he  had  stowed  away  in  Kobe  harbor. 

I  told  his  story  to  the  Chilian  as  we  struck  off  together  towards 

483 


484      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  park  which  I  fancied  must  be  our  resting-place  for  the  night. 
The  South  American,  however,  had  not  been  three  months  "  on  the 
beach "  without  learning  some  of  the  secrets  of  Yokohama.  He 
marched  self-confidently  down  the  main  thoroughfare,  past  the  Ger- 
man and  American  consulates,  turned  a  corner  at  the  European  post- 
office,  and,  brushing  along  a  well-kept  hedge,  stopped  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  a  short  driveway.  Before  us  was  a  high  wooden  gate 
flanked  by  two  taller  pillars,  beyond  which  the  thin  moonlight  dis- 
closed the  outlines  of  a  large,  two-story  dwelling. 

"  Look  here,  friend,"  I  interposed,  "  if  you  're  going  to  try  bur- 
glary-" 

"  Callete  la  boca,  hombre !  "  muttered  the  Chilian.  "  The  patrol  will 
hear  you.  Come  on,"  and,  placing  both  hands  on  the  top  of  the  gate, 
he  vaulted  it  as  easily  as  if  it  had  been  only  half  its  six  feet  in  height. 
I  followed,  and  the  half-breed  tumbled  over  after  me,  his  heels  beat- 
ing a  noisy  tattoo  on  the  barrier.  Once  inside,  however,  the  Chilian 
seemed  to  lose  all  fear  of  the  patrol  and  crunched  along  the  graveled 
walk,  talking  freely. 

**  Lucky  thing  for  the  beachcombers,  this  war,"  he  said ;  "  If  there 
were  peace  we  'd  be  sleeping  in  the  park.  Suppose  the  Czar  knew  he 
was  giving  us  posada  ?  "  he  chuckled,  marching  around  to  the  back  of 
the  building.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  within.  Mounting  to  the 
back  veranda,  our  guide  snatched  open  one  shutter  of  a  low  window. 
The  half-breed  was  trembling  piteously,  though  whether  from  hunger, 
fatigue,  or  fear,  I  could  not  know.  One  needed  only  to  look  hard  at 
him  to  set  his  teeth  rattling. 

But  I  myself  had  no  longing  to  be  taken  for  a  burglar. 

"  Here !     What 's  the  game  ?  "  I  demanded,  nudging  the  Chilian. 

"  Why,  man,"  he  replied,  "  this  is  our  hotel,  the  Russian  consulate," 
and  he  stepped  in  through  the  open  window. 

My  misgivings  fled.  Japan  and  Russia  were  at  war;  the  con- 
sulate, therefore,  must  be  unoccupied,  and  more  than  that,  it  was  Rus- 
sian territory,  on  which  the  police  of  Japan  had  no  more  authority 
than  in  Moscow.     I  swung  a  leg  over  the  window  sill. 

"  Ascolta !  "  gasped  the  half-caste,  snatching  at  my  jacket ;  "  Ci  sono 
gente ! " 

I  paused  to  listen.  From  somewhere  close  at  hand  came  a  muf- 
fled   snort. 

"  Come  on,"  laughed  the  Chilian.  "  It 's  one  of  the  boys,  snoring. 
Several  of  them  make  posada  here." 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  485 

When  we  had  climbed  in  and  closed  the  shutter,  he  struck  a  match. 
The  room  was  entirely  unfurnished,  but  carpeted  with  grass  mats  sp 
soft  that  a  bed  would  have  been  superfluous.  The  Chilian  pulled 
open  the  door  of  a  closet  and  brought  forth  a  candle,  pipe,  blanket, 
and  a  paper  novel  in  Spanish. 

"  Of  course  it 's  only  the  servants'  quarters,"  he  apologized,  spread- 
ing out  the  blanket  and  lighting  candle  and  pipe ;  **  the  main  part  of 
the  house  is  tight  locked.  But  there  's  plenty  of  room  for  such  of  the 
boys  as  I  have  passed  the  word  to, —  sober  fellows  that  won't  burn  the 
place  up." 

He  picked  up  the  novel  and  was  still  reading  when  I  fell  asleep. 
Sunlight  streaming  into  my  face  and  the  sound  of  an  unfamiliar  voice 
awakened  me  in  what  seemed  a  short  hour  afterward.  The  window 
by  which  we  had  entered  stood  wide  open,  and  a  Japanese  in  European 
garb  was  peering  in  upon  us. 

"  What  you  make  here  ? "  he  demanded,  as  I  sprang  to  my  feet. 
**  Come  out  quick  or  I  call  the  police." 

The  Chilian  stirred  and  thrust  aside  the  jacket  that  covered  his 
face. 

"  Go  on  way ! "  he  growled,  in  the  first  English  I  had  heard  from 
his  lips.     "  Go  on  way  an'  leave  us  to  sleep." 

'*  I  call  the  police,"  repeated  the  native. 

"  Bloody  thunder,  police !  "  bawled  my  partner,  sitting  up.  "  Go  on 
way  or  I  break  your  face." 

The  Jap  left  hastily. 
mk    "  Close  the  shutters,"   continued  the   Chilian,   in  his  own  tongue. 
"  Too  early  to  get  up  yet.     That  fellow  is  from  the  French  consul, 
who  has  charge  of  this  place.     He  disturbs  us  every  morning,  but 
e  can  do  nothing." 

Two  hours  later  the  Chilian  stowed  away  his  property.  When  the 
coast  was  clear,  we  climbed  the  gate  and  returned  to  the  Home. 

Life  on  the  beach  in  Yokohama  might  have  grown  monotonous  in 
the  days  that  followed  but  for  the  necessity  of  an  incessant  scramble 
for  rice  and  fishes.  Out  beyond  the  park  were  a  score  of  native  shops 
where  a  Gargantuan  feast  of  rice  and  stewed  niku  —  meat  of  uncertain 
antecedents  —  sold  for  a  song.  There  were  times,  of  course,  when 
we  had  not  even  a  song  between  us;  but  in  the  Chinese  quarters 
nearer  the  harbor,  queued  shopkeepers  offered  an  armful  of  Oriental 
fruits  and  the  thin  strips  of  roasted  pork  popularly  known  as  "  rat- 
tails  "  for  half  a  vocal  effort.     Or,  failing  this,  there  were  the  vendors 


486      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

of  soba,  who  appeared  with  their  push-carts  as  dusk  fell,  demanding 
only  two  sen  for  a  bowl  of  this  Japanese  macaroni  swimming  in 
greasy  water,  and  the  use  of  a  badly-worn  pair  of  chopsticks.  The 
Chilian  was  versatile,  I  had  been  "  busted  "  before ;  between  us  we 
rarely  failed  to  find  the  means  of  patronizing  at  least  the  street  ven- 
dors before  retreating  to  Russian  territory. 

Never  had  I  doubted,  on  the  day  of  my  stroll  back  from  Tokyo,  that 
the  end  of  August  would  find  me  again  in  "  the  States."  By  the 
time  I  had  learned  to  vault  the  consulate  gate  as  noiselessly  as  the 
Chilian,  the  Pacific  seemed  a  far  greater  barrier.  For  shipping  was 
dull  in  Yokohama;  the  shipping,  that  is,  of  white  seamen.  That 
day  was  rare  in  which  at  least  one  ship  did  not  weigh  anchor;  but 
their  crews  were  Oriental.  His  book  might  be  swollen  with  honor- 
able discharges,  his  stubby  fingers  nimble  at  making  knots  and  splices ; 
but  plain  Jack  Tar  from  the 'western  world  was  left  to  knock  his 
heels  on  the  long  stone  jetty  and  hurl  stentorian  oaths  at  each  de- 
parting craft. 

A  *'  windjammer,"  requiring  a  new  crew,  would  have  solved  many 
personal  problems;  and  there  were  three  such  vessels,  two  full-rigged 
ships  and  a  bark,  riding  at  anchor  far  out  beyond  the  breakwater. 
But  as  far  back  as  the  oldest  beachcomber  could  remember,  they 
had  showed  no  signs  of  hfe,  and  their  gaunt  masts  and  bare  yards 
had  long  since  come  to  be  as  permanent  fixtures  in  the  landscape  as 
the  eternal  hills  beyond.  Moreover,  rumor  had  it  that  the  crafts 
were  full-handed.  Now  and  then  a  pair  of  their  apprentices  dropped 
into  the  Home  of  an  evening ;  more  than  one  of  "  the  boys," 
skirmishing  for  breakfast  in  the  gray  of  dawn,  had  come  upon  the  light 
of  one  of  their  crews  on  his  beams'  ends  in  the  gutter  of  the  undigni- 
fied district  beyond  the  canal.  But  sober  or  besotted,  not  a  man  of 
them  dreamed  of  clearing  out ;  and  "  the  boys  "  had  long  since  given  up 
all  hope  of  being  called  to  fill  a  vacancy. 

I  had,  of  course,  lost  no  time  in  making  known  my  existence  at  the 
American  consulate.  Captains  were  not  unknown  in  the  legation ;  not 
many  moons  since,  a  man  had  actually  been  signed  on  in  that  very  build- 
ing !  Each  interview  with  the  genial  consul  was  full  of  good  cheer ; 
yet,  as  a  really  satisfying  portion,  good  cheer  was  infinitely  inferior  to 
a  bowl  of  soba.  Between  pursuing  that  elusive  substance  through  the 
streets  of  Yokohama  and  over  her  suburban  hills,  and  wiping  our  feet 
on  the  mats  of  steamship  offices  of  high  and  low  degree,  neither  the 
Chilian  nor  I  found  cause  to  complain  of  the  inactivity  of  existence. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  487 

In  one  thing  the  South  American  was  eccentric.  He  would  not 
Oeg.  Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  there  was  small  temptation  to  be 
overcome  in  that  regard;  for  the  Jap  is  an  ardent  believer  in  the  old 
adage  anent  the  initial  dwelling  place  of  charity.  Twice  we  found 
work  in  the  city,  the  first  in  the  press  room  of  one  of  Japan's  English 
newspapers,  the  second  on  the  wharf.  But  if  the  price  of  living  was 
low,  the  wage  scale  was  even  more  debased;  and  there  were  others  to 
partake  of  our  earnings,  for  in  Yokohama  were  at  least  a  score  of 
beachcombers  with  well-developed  appetites,  closely  banded  together  in 
a  profit-sharing  company. 

When  work  failed,  the  blanket  in  the  cupboard  netted  one  yen. 
That  gone,  there  were  a  few  odds  and  ends  of  wearing  apparel  in 
my  bundle  to  be  offered  up.  The  Chilian  owned  two  pair  of  shoes ; 
an  extraordinary  amplitude  of  wardrobe  that  smacked  of  foppish- 
ness. He  felt  more  comfortable  when  the  extra  pair  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  *'  holy  Joe's  "  keeping  to  the  sagging  line  above  the  pawn- 
shop door.  When  the  shoes  had  been  eaten,  intercourse  with  the 
broker  lapsed.  Except  for  my  kodak  and  our  pipes  not  a  thing  re- 
mained but  the  clothes  we  stood  in. 

Then  came  the  legacy  from  "  Frisco  Kid."  The  "  Kid  "  was  one 
of  the  few  Americans  among  us.  On  the  first  evening  that  we  were 
forced  to  retreat  "  sobaless  "  to  the  Home,  he  drew  me  aside  for  a 
moment. 

"You  know,"  he  whispered,  "the  Pliades  is  going  out  to-night? 
I  'm  going  to  have  a  try  at  sticking  away  on  her,  an'  the  washee  man 
has  a  few  of  my  rags." 

He  thrust  into  my  hand  a  wooden  laundry  check. 

"  If  I  don't  turn  up  in  the  morning,  the  stuff  's  yours.  So  long. 
I  '11  give  'em  your  regards  in  the  States." 

At  nine  next  day  he  had  not  returned,  and,  having  satisfied  the 
laundryman  with  a  few  coppers  borrowed  from  the  missionary,  we 
feasted  royally  on  the  contents  of  the  bundle, —  a  khaki  uniform  and 
two  shirts. 

It  was  on  Saturday,  nearly  two  weeks  after  my  return  from  Tokyo, 
that  the  first  prospect  of  escape  from  Japan  presented  itself, —  a  prom- 
ise from  the  consul  to  speak  in  my  behalf  to  the  captain  of  a  fast  mail 
steamer  to  sail  a  few  days  later.  Therein  lay  the  last  hope  of  com- 
pleting my  journey  in  the  fifteen  months  set,  and  I  took  care  that 
the  consul  should  suffer  no  lapse  of  memory. 

Early  the  following  Monday,  the  last  day  of  July,  I  turned  in  at 


488      A  VAG'ABOKD  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

the  consulate  just  as  two  men^  absorbed  in  conversation,  emerged. 
One  was  the  vice-consul ;  the  other,  a  man  of  some  fifty  years,  stal- 
wart of  figure  and  of  a  meditative  cast  of  countenance  rendered  more 
solemn  by  thick-rimmed  spectacles,  a  Quakerish  felt  hat,  and  long 
black  locks.  I  set  him  down  at  once  for  a  missionary,  and,  with  a 
seaman's  instinctive  aversion  for  the  cloth,  stepped  aside  to  let  him  pass. 
The  vice-consul,  however,  catching  sight  of  me  as  he  shook  the 
stranger's  hand,  beckoned  to  me  to  approach. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  addressing  the  stranger ;  "  here  is  an 
American  sailor  who  has  been  hanging  around  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
and  he  has  not  been  drunk  once  — " 

Obviously  not;  it  takes  money  even  to  buy  saki. 

"  Can't  you  take  him  on,  captain  ?  " 

Captain,  indeed !  Of  what  ?  The  mail  steamer,  perhaps.  I  stepped 
forward  eagerly. 

"  Umph !  "  said  the  stranger,  looking  me  over.  "  On  the  beach, 
eh  ?  Why,  yes,  I  am  none  too  full-handed.  But  it 's  too  late  to  sign 
him  on ;  my  articles  have  been  endorsed. 

"  Still,"  he  went  on,  "  he  can  come  on  board  and  I  '11  set  him  down 
as  a  stowaway,  and  sign  him  on  when  once  we  're  clear  of  port." 

"  Good ! "  cried  the  vice-consul.  "  There  you  are !  Now  don't 
loaf  and  make  us  ashamed  to  ask  a  favor  of  the  captain  next  time." 

"  Here  's  a  yen,"  said  the  captain.  "  Go  get  something  to  eat  and 
wait  for  me  on  the  jetty." 

I  raced  away  to  the  Home  to  invite  the  Chilian  to  a  farewell  lunch- 
eon ;  then  returned  to  the  appointed  rendezvous.  The  day  was  stormy, 
and  a  dozen  downpours  drenched  me  as  many  times  during  the  seven 
hours  that  I  waited.  Towards  nightfall  the  captain  drove  up  in  a 
'rickshaw  and,  without  giving  me  the  least  sign  of  recognition,  stepped 
into  his  launch.  As  he  disappeared  in  the  cabin  below,  I  sprang  to 
the  deck  of  the  craft. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  should  have  given  something  to  have  been  able 
to  spring  back  on  the  wharf.  The  launch  raced  at  full  speed  out 
across  the  harbor,  past  the  last  steamer  riding  at  anchor,  and  turned 
her  prow  towards  the  open  sea.  Where  in  the  name  of  Father  Nep- 
tune was  she  bound?  I  wiped  the  water  from  my  eyes  and  gazed  in 
astonishment  at  the  receding  shore.  The  last  tramp  was  already  far 
astern.  The  higher  waves  of  the  outer  bay  caught  the  tiny  craft  as 
she  slipped  through  the  mouth  of  the  breakwater  and  sent  me  waltz- 
ing about  the   slippery   deck.    Had   the   long-haired   lunatic   in   the 


The  Russian  consulate  of  Yokohama,  in  which  we  "beach-combers"  slept 


Japanese  types  in  a  temple  inclosure 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  489 

cabin  chosen  a  launch  for  a  sea  voyage  or — ?  Then  all  at  once  I 
understood,  and  gasped  with  dismay.  Far  off  through  the  driving 
rain  appeared  the  towering  masts  of  the  sailing  vessels,  and  that  one 
towards  which  we  were  headed  had  her  sails  bent,  ready  for  depar- 
ture. That  blessed  vice-consul  had  sentenced  me  to  work  my  way 
home  on  a  windjammer! 

Dusk  was  settling  over  the  harbor  when  the  launch  bumped  against 
the  ship's  side.  The  rain  had  ceased.  Several  seamen,  sprawling 
about  the  forward  deck,  sprang  to  their  feet  as  I  poked  my  head  over 
the  bulwarks. 

"  Hooray ! "  bellowed  a  stentorian  voice,  "  A  new  shipmate,  lads. 
Turn  out  an' — " 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  resulting  uproar.  Sailors  in  every  stage 
of  undress  stumbled  out  of  the  forecastle;  pimple-faced  apprentices 
bobbed  up  from  amidships ;  even  "  Chips "  and  the  sailmaker  lost 
their  dignity  and  hurried  forward,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I 
was  surrounded  by  all  hands  and  the  cook. 

The  "  doctor  "  gave  me  leave  to  dry  my  uniform  in  the  galley,  and 
I  retired  to  the  forecastle  to  spin  my  yarn  to  the  excited  crew.  A 
general  laugh  greeted  the  account  of  my  meeting  with  the  captain. 

"  A  stowaway,  is  it !  "  cried  one  of  the  seamen.  "  There  'd  be  more 
truth  in  sayin'  you  was  shanghaied.  That 's  a  favorite  game  with 
the  old  man  to  cut  down  expenses  an'  square  'imself  with  the  owners. 
Sign  you  on !  Of  course  'e  could  if  'e  'd  wanted.  No  damn  fear ! 
An'  'im  five  'ands  short.  Hell,  if  this  was  a  civilized  port  not  a 
clearance  paper  would  'e  get  until  'e  'd  signed  on  the  crew  the  articles 
calls  for.  Howsomever,  'ere  you  are,  an'  it 's  no  use  kickin'  after 
you  're  'ung.  But  it 's  a  ragged  deal  t'  'ave  t'  work  your  passage 
'ome  on  a  windjammer." 

"This  tub?"  he  went  on,  in  answer  to  my  request  for  information. 
."  Aye,  when  I  've  lighted  up,  I  '11  gi'  you  'er  story  in  a  pipeful.  She  's 
the  Glenalvon,  square-rigged  ship  an'  English  built,  as  you  can  see 
wi'  your  eyes  shut,  1927  tons,  solid  enough,  being  all  iron  but  'er 
decks  an'  the  blocks ;  but  that 's  all 's  can  be  said  for  'er.  This 
crowd  shipped  on  'er  out  o'  Newcastle  two  year  ago  with  coal  for 
Iqiuque,  loaded  saltpetre  for  Yokohama,  and  she  's  bound  now  for 
Royal  Roads  in  ballast  —  to  load  wheat  for  'ome,  like  'nough.  With  a 
cargo  she 's  a  good  sailor,  an'  'as  made  the  States  in  twenty-four 
days ;  but  with  only  mud  in  'er  bottom  an'  foul  wi'  barnacles  there  's  no 
knowin'.     Maybe  a  month." 


490       A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

"  Countin'  yourself  there 's  thirty-three  on  board,  one  of  'em  a 
woman  an'  two  of  'em  goats.  To  begin  with,  there  's  the  skipper. 
Ten  t'  one  you  took  'im  for  a  *  Christer.'  They  all  does  ashore,  but 
'e  's  a  hell  of  a  way  from  bein'  one  afloat.     He  's  a  bluenoser  named 

Andrews,  an'  the  biggest that  ever  come  out  o'  Halifax.     Mind 

you  don't  fall  foul  of  'im." 

"  The  mate  's  a  bluenoser,  too,  bit  longer  'n  a  belayin'-pin,  with  no 
*air  under  'is  cap,  an'  no  sailorman.  Oo  ever  seen  a  bald-'ead  as  was  ? 
'E  ain't  been  caught  'igher  aloft  these  two  year  'n  the  spanker-boom. 

"  Second  mate  's  a  Irish  lad,  just  got  'is  papers  an'  a  good  seaman, 
but  hazin'  the  boys  like  all  these  youngish  chaps.  The  doctor  's  a 
Swede,  Chips  comes  from  the  same  island,  an'  Sails  is  a  Dutchman. 
Then  there 's  seven  men  in  the  port  watch  an'  five  in  the  second 
mate's,  ten  apprentices  amidships,  only  three  of  'em  big  enough  t'  be 
more  'n  in  the  way,  an'  *  Carrot-top,'  the  cabin  boy.  The  skipper  's 
wife  —  if  she  is  —  is  a  scrawny  heifer  you  would  n't  be  seen  walkin' 
down  the  Broomielaw  with ;  a  bluenoser,  too,  some  says,  but  there  's . 
no  knowin',  for  not  a  'and  'as  she  spoke  these  two  year.  An'  there 
you  'ave  the  outfit,  four  less  'n  when  she  shipped  'er  mud-hook  —  after 
losin'  one  off  the  Horn,  two  clearin'  out  in  Chilly,  an'  plantin'  my  mate 
in  the  English  cementery  up  there  on  the  Bluflf." 

By  the  time  my  clothes  were  dry  the  second  mate  came  forward  to 
assign  me  to  the  starboard  watch,  and  I  turned  in  with  my  new 
messmates.  That  we  were  not  called  until  dawn  was  a  sure  sign  that 
the  day  of  sailing  had  not  come.  After  breakfast  four  apprentices 
rowed  the  captain  and  his  wife  ashore,  and  we  spent  the  day  painting 
over  the  side. 

Once  turned  in  again,  it  barely  seemed  possible  that  I  had  fallen 
asleep  when  there  came  a  banging  on  the  iron  door  of  the  forecastle 
and  a  blatant  bellow  of: — 

"All  hands!     Up  anchor,  ho!" 

With  only  five  minutes'  grace  to  jump  into  our  clothes,  we  tumbled 
out  precipitately.  Twenty-two  men  and  boys,  their  heads  still  heavy 
with  sleep,  grasped  the  bars  of  the  capstan  on  the  forecastle-head 
just  as  five  bells  sounded,  and  for  four  hours  we  marched  round  and 
round  the  creaking  apparatus.  One  man  at  a  steam  winch  could  have 
raised  the  anchor  in  ten  minutes,  but  here  everything  was  entirely 
dependent  on  man-power ;  the  Glenalvon  had  not  so  much  as  a  donkey- 
engine. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  491 

Dawn  found  us  still  treading  the  never-changing  circle  in  time  to 
a  mournful  dirge  sustained  by  long-winded  members  of  the  crew. 
The  sun  rose  and  the  sweat  ran  in  streams  along  the  bars.  Hunger 
gnawed  us  inwardly.  The  skipper  turned  out  for  his  morning  con- 
stitutional, a  steamer  slipped  by  us,  at  every  revolution  I  caught  my- 
self gazing  regretfully  across  the  bay  at  the  flag-pole  of  the  Russian 
consulate. 

Then  all  at  once  the  second  mate,  peering  over  the  side,  raised  a 
hand. 

''  Belay  all !  "  bellowed  the  skipper,  from  the  poop.  '*  Lay  aloft, 
all  hands !     Shake  'em  out !     Man  the  wheel !  " 

The  crew  sprang  into  the  rigging.  We  loosened  a  dozen  sails  and, 
leaving  a  man  on  each  mast  to  clear  the  downhauls,  slid  down  on  deck 
again  and  sheeted  home  the  topgallants  and  the  lower  topsails. 
Then  came  a  more  arduous  task, — to  hoist  the  upper  topsail  yards. 
Every  human  being  on  board  except  the  captain  and  his  wife  tailed 
out  on  the  rope;  even  then  we  were  not  enough.  The  massive  iron 
yard  rose,  but  only  inch  by  inch,  and  every  heave  seemed  to  pull  our 
arms  half  out  of  their  sockets. 

Seamen,  like  Arabs,  work  best  in  unison  under  the  inspiration  of 
music.  "  Sails,"  the  Glenalvon's  acknowledged  leader  in  vocal  pro- 
ductions, burst  out  in  a  rasping  shriek : — 

"  As  I   was   walkin'   down  Ratcliffe   Highway." 

All  hands  caught  up  the  chorus  in  a  roar  that  the  distant  cliffs 
threw  back  at  us: — 

"  Blow  !  boys  !  blow  the  man  down  !  "  heaving  together  at  each 
repetition  of  the  word  "  blow." 

"  Sails  "   continued : — 

"  A  pretty  young  maid  I  chanced  for  to  meet." 

"  Oh  !  GIVE  us  SOME  TIME  TO  BLOW  THE  MAN  DOWN  !  " 

"  Says  she,  '  Young  man,  will  you  stand  treat  ?  '  " 

"  Blow  !  boys  !  blow  the  man  down  !  " 

"  '  Delighted/  says  I,  *  for  a  charmer  so  sweet.' " 

"  Oh  1  give  us  some  time  to  blow  the  man  down  !  " 

The  yard  rose  a  bit  faster  but  by  no  means  rapidly.     The  skipper 

paced  the  poop,  cursing  us  all  for  blunderers. 

"Steward!"  he  roared,  *' bring  a  bottle  of  grog!" 

The  "  doctor  "  let  go  the  rope  as  if  it  had  suddenly  turned  red-hot, 

and  ran  for  the  lazaret.     A  smile  of  anticipation   flitted  along  the 


1 


492      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 


line  of  perspiring  faces.  A  promise  of  double  wages  for  all  hands 
would  have  been  less  effective.  The  resulting  heave  took  me  so  by 
surprise  that  I  was  carried  off  my  feet. 

The  cook  appeared  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  the  skipper  snatched 
the  bottle  he  carried  and  exammed  it  attentively.  We  were  too  far 
away  to  hear  their  conversation;  but  the  yard  was  moving  skyward 
by  leaps  and  bounds.  Then  suddenly  the  lord  and  master  of  us  all 
turned  and  pitched  the  bottle  into  the  sea. 

"  My  Gawd !  "  ran  a  horrified  whisper  along  the  rope.  "  E  's  threw 
it  overboard.     'E  thinks  we  're  sodgerin'." 

But  for  the  tenacity  of  a  few  of  us  the  yard  must  have  come  down 
by  the  run. 

Inspiration  came  again,  however,  for  the  cook  ran  off  and  returned 
with  a  second  flagon.  The  first,  it  turned  out,  had  a  tiny  hole  in  the 
bottom  and  was  empty. 

The  topsail  was  quickly  sheeted  home  and  I  lined  up  with  the  rest 
before  the  galley-door  to  drink  my  **  three  fingers  "  of  extremely  poor 
whiskey.  Then,  breaking  up  into  smaller  groups,  we  hoisted  the 
"  fore-and-afters,"  and,  when  we  turned  in  for  breakfast  an  hour  late, 
weak  and  ugly  from  hunger,  the  Glenalvon  was  carrying  every  stitch 
of  canvas  but  the  three  royals  and  her  cross- jack. 

"  At  least,"  I  told  myself,  rubbing  my  aching  arms  between  mouth- 
fuls  of  watery  "  scouse,"  "  we  're  off,  and  the  worst  is  over." 

Which  proved  only  how  little  I  knew  of  the  vagaries  of  "  wind- 
jammers." 

Tokyo  Bay,  shaped  like  a  whiskey  bottle  with  the  neck  turned 
westward,  is  so  nearly  land-locked  that  few  masters  of  sailing  vessels 
attempt  to  beat  their  way  out  of  it.  When  we  had  begun  to  heave 
anchor  a  fair  wind  promised  to  carry  the  Glenalvon  straight  out  to 
sea.  By  dawn,  however,  it  had  shifted  and  before  grog  had  been 
served  it  blew  from  exactly  the  opposite  point  of  the  compass.  Noth- 
ing was  left  but  to  tack  back  and  forth  against  it.  A  bellow  sum- 
moned us  on  deck  before  breakfast  was  half  over,  to  go  about  ship. 
A  few  more  mouthfuls  and  a  short  pipe  and  we  wore  ship  again.  But 
it  was  no  use.  The  head  wind  increased,  the  bay  was  narrow;  on 
the  third  tack  the  skipper  ventured  too  close  ashore,  lost  his  head,  and 
roared  out  an  order: — 

"  Let   go    the   anchor ! " 

The  "  mud-hook  "  dropped  with  a  mighty  roar  and  rattle  of  cable ; 
the  fore-and-aft  sails  came  down  with  a  run;  ropes  screamed  through 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  493 

the  blocks;  the  topsail  yards  fell  with  a  crash;  the  topgallants  bellied 
out  and  snapped  in  the  breeze  with  the  boom  of  cannon;  the  blocks 
at  the  corners  of  fore  and  main  sails  threshed  about  our  heads ;  ropes 
and  steel  cables  of  every  size  squirmed  about  the  decks,  snatching  us 
off  our  feet  and  slashing  us  in  the  faces;  pulleys,  belay ing-pins,  ap- 
prentices, and  goats  sprawled  in  every  direction.  It  seemed,  as  a 
seaman  put  it,  that  "  all  hell  had  been  let  loose  " ;  and  in  three  min- 
utes the  work  of  five  arduous  hours  had  been  utterly  undone. 

When  the  uproar  had  abated  we  took  up  the  task  of  reducing  the 
chaos  to  order ;  furled  the  sails,  squared  the  yards,  coiled  up  the  thou- 
sand and  one  ropes  that  carpeted  the  deck,  manned  the  pump  and 
washed  down.  To  an  unbiased  observer  this  would  have  seemed 
work  enough  for  one  day,  but  after  a  bare  half-hour  for  dinner  we 
were  routed  out  once  more  and  sent  over  the  side  with  our  paint- 
pots. 

Exactly  this  same  experience  —  without  the  grog  —  befell  us  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  It  came  to  be  our  regular  ex- 
istence, this  being  called  soon  after  midnight  to  man  the  capstan,  and 
to  work  incessantly  until  twilight  fell.  Day  after  day  the  wind  blew 
steadily  in  at  the  mouth  of  the  bottle,  barely  veering  a  point;  and, 
what  was  rtjost  regrettable,  it  was  just  the  breeze  to  send  us  flying 
homeward,  once  we  were  out  of  the  bay.  My  shipmates  were  less 
downcast  than  I,  for  it  mattered  little  to  them  whether  they  earned 
their  wages  in  Tokyo  Bay  or  on  the  open  sea.  But  even  they  be- 
gan in  time  to  grumble  at  the  long  hours  and  to  curse  the  captain  for 
his  parsimony  in  refusing  to  charter  a  tug. 

A  week  went  by.  The  bark  that  had  long  ridden  at  anchor  near 
the  Glenalvon  towed  out  to  sea  and  sailed  away.  The  mail  steamer 
glided  by  so  close  that  the  Chilian  hailed  me  from  her  forecastle-head. 
A  dozen  craft  went  in  and  out,  and  still  the  peerless  cone  of  Fujiyama 
gazed  down  upon  us.  Had  there  been  any  chance  of  the  request  being 
granted,  I  should  long  since  have  craved  to  be  set  ashore. 

There  were  ominous  whispers  in  the  forecastle  that  it  was  danger- 
ous to  be  forever  tacking  back  and  forth  in  Tokyo  Bay.  Nor  was 
such  gossip  idle.  One  morning,  after  the  usual  fiasco,  we  dropped 
anchor  not  far  from  the  northern  shore.  Immediately  a  small  Japan- 
ese war-vessel  steamed  out  and  hailed  us;  but  her  officers  spoke  no 
English,  and  our  captain,  consigning  them  all  to  purgatory,  turned 
down  into  his  cabin.  He  was  up  again  in  short  order  and  what  he 
saw  caused  his  jaw  to  sag  and  his  rugged  countenance  to  take  on  a 


494      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

sickly  green  pallor.  Just  beneath  our  bow,  a  half-ship's  length  ahead, 
the  Japs  had  anchored  a  small  buoy  bearing  the  red  flag  that  indi- 
cates the  presence  of  a  submarine  mine. 

The  "  old  man  "  did  not  wait  for  a  repetition  of  the  oflfer  of  the 
Japanese  to  tow  him  to  a  safer  anchorage.  The  crew  manned  the 
capstan  with  unusual  alacrity  and  a  cable  was  quickly  made  fast  to 
the  stern  bollards.  At  the  very  moment,  however,  when  we  were  be- 
ginning to  congratulate  ourselves  on  a  narrow  escape,  the  cable 
parted.  Urged  on  by  half  a  gale,  the  Glenalvon  commenced  to  drift 
rapidly  and  unerringly  towards  the  red  flag.  For  one  brief  moment 
pandemonium  reigned.  "  Carrot-top  "  and  half  the  apprentices  were 
for  jumping  overboard;  but  the  foremast  hands  behaved  like  men, 
and  a  second  cable  was  made  fast  just  in  time. 

For  all  this  experience  Captain  Andrews  persisted  in  his  attempt 
to  beat  out  of  the  bay.  The  harbor  of  Yokohama  came  to  be  a  sight 
odious  to  all  on  board,  the  crew  w^as  worn  out  in  body  and  spirit,  I 
began  to  despair  of  ever  again  taking  up  the  well-fed  existence  of  a 
landsman,  and  all  because  our  niggardly  skipper  had  set  his  heart  on 
saving  a  paltry  sixty  pounds.  But  he  was  forced  to  yield  at  last,  and 
all  hands  rejoiced  that  his  miserliness  had  recoiled  on  his  own  head. 
On  the  morning  of  August  eleventh  we  turned  out  to  heave  anchor 
for  the  tenth  time.  The  skipper  had  been  rowed  ashore  the  after- 
noon before  and  a  tug  was  waiting  to  take  us  in  tow.  Late  in  the 
day  she  dropped  us  outside  the  narrows  and  when  night  fell  the  Glen- 
alvon, under  all  sail,  was  tossing  on  the  open  sea.  » 

Officially  my  presence  on  board  was  still  unknown.  Next  morn- 
ing, as  the  starboard  watch  was  about  to  turn  in,  I  received  an  order 
to  lay  aft.  The  skipper  was  sitting  at  the  cabin  table  with  the  open 
log  before  him. 

"  Here 's  the  entry  I  Ve  just  made,"  he  said,  as  I  stepped  in. 
"  This  morning,  soon  after  losing  sight  of  land,  a  stowaway  was  dis- 
covered on  board,  who  gives  the  name  of  H.  Franck,  nationality, 
American,  and  profession,  seaman.  He  has  been  turned  to  with  the 
crew  and  entered  on  the  articles  with  the  rating  of  A.B.,  at  one  pound 
a  month  " —  my  shipmates  drew  three  — "  under  the  maritime  regu- 
lations covering   such  cases." 

I  touched  the  pen  with  which  the  captain  had  inscribed  my  name  on 
the  articles,  muttered  a  "  thank  you,"  and  returned  to  the  forecastle. 

My  signing  on  was  by  no  means  the  last  episode  to  break  the  mo- 
notony of  the  voyage.     In  fact,  unexpected  episodes  came  with  such 


A  Yokohama  street  decorated  for  the  Taft  party.     The  display  is 

entirely  private  and  shows  the  general  good  will  of  the 

Japanese  toward  the  United  States 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  495 

frequency  during  the  trip  that  even  they  in  time  grew  monotonous. 
First  of  all,  the  breeze  that  had  held  us  bottled  up  for  twelve  days 
shifted  to  a  head  wind  that  soon  increased  to  a  gale.  For  more  than 
a  week  it  blew  steadily  from  the  same  quarter,  varying  only  in  vio- 
lence. Rain  poured  almost  incessantly.  Lashed  by  the  storm,  the  sea 
rose  mountains  high,  and  the  ship,  being  in  ballast,  reared  like  a  cow- 
boy's broncho,  or  lay  on  her  beams'  ends  like  a  mortally  wounded 
creature.  There  was  no  standing  on  the  deck.  The  best  pair  of  sea- 
legs  was  as  useless  as  the  wabbly  shanks  of  a  landlubber.  We 
moved  about  like  chamois  on  a  mountain  peak,  springing  from  bol- 
lard to  bulwarks  and  from  bulwarks  to  hatch  combing,  or  dragging 
ourselves  hand  over  hand  along  the  braces  to  windward.  A  steady 
gale  would  have  made  life  less  burdensome,  for  so  erratic  was  the 
weather  that  every  square  of  canvas  from  the  mizzen-royal  to  the  fly- 
ing-jib must  be  furled,  reefed,  and  shaken  out  again  a  dozen  times  a 
day.  The  bellow  to  lay  aloft  was  forever  ringing  in  our  ears;  we 
lived  in  the  rigging,  like  apes  in  their  tree  tops.  If  the  trimming  of 
sails  languished  for  a  moment,  there  was  a  standing  order  to  go  about 
ship  as  often  as  men  enough  for  the  manoeuvre  reached  the  deck. 

It  was  a  submarine  task,  this  wearing  ship.  The  lee  braces  rarely 
appeared  above  the  water  line,  and,  once  tailed  out  on  them,  every  man 
clung  to  his  rope  like  grim  death,  for  it  was  literally  his  only  hold  on 
life;  to  let  go  meant  a  short  shift  to  Davy  Jones'  locker.  With  every 
roll  the  sea  swept  high  above  our  heads  and  left  us  floundering  in  the 
scuppers  like  fish  strung  on  a  line.  There  were  no  rousing  "  chant- 
ies "  to  cheer  us  on,  for  not  even  the  sailmaker  could  air  his  vocal  ac- 
complishments to  advantage  under  water.  But  even  without  such  in- 
spiration no  man  thought  of  loafing  at  the  lee  braces;  and  more  than 
once  we  took  "  a  long  pull  and  a  strong  pull  "  before  the  ship  righted 
and  brought  us  sputtering  and  choking  to  the  surface.  Out  on  the  jib- 
boom  the  duckings  were  of  even  longer  duration,  for  there  one  went 
down,  down,  down  into  the  cool,  green  depths  of  the  sea  until  the 
world   above   seemed  lost  to   memory. 

There  were  chronic  pessimists  on  board  the  Glenalvon,  there  were 
several  who  posed  as  infallible  prophets  in  maritime  matters ;  but  it 
is  certain  that  not  one  of  the  ship's  company  had  anticipated  any  such 
trip  as  this.  Word  drifted  forward  that  the  "  old  man  "  swore  never 
before  to  have  known  such  weather  on  the  north  Pacific.  All  hands 
took  solemn  oath  that  rounding  the  Horn  had  been  a  house-boat  ex- 
cursion in  comparison.     In  the   forecastle  the  conviction  grew  that 


496      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

there  was  a  "  Jonah  "  on  board.  The  identity  of  the  culprit  came  to 
be  the  question  of  the  hour.  Gradually  the  crew  broke  up  into  three 
contending  factions.  One  group  accused  me,  as  a  newcomer,  of  be- 
ing the  hoodoo,  another  regarded  the  bald-headed  mate  as  the  source 
of  evil,  while  the  suspicions  of  the  third  fell  on  the  one-eyed  goat. 
The  varying  notions  gave  rise  to  many  a  heated  debate,  to  mutual 
vituperation,  and  occasional  blows;  but  the  real  cause  of  our  misery 
was  never  clearly  established. 

The  head  wind,  the  pouring  rain,  and  the  intermittent  gales  con- 
tinued, not  only  for  days  but  for  weeks.  The  weather  turned  bitter 
cold.  Unable  to  hold  to  her  course,  the  Glenalvon  ran  "  by  the  wind  " 
far  to  the  north.  One  night  on  the  second  week  out  the  one-eyed 
goat  froze  to  death.  With  only  my  khaki  uniform  I  should  have  suf- 
fered a  similar  fate  but  for  the  kindness  of  a  shipmate,  who,  having 
purchased  at  auction  the  clothing  of  the  man  lost  off  the  Horn,  and 
being  deterred  by  a  seaman's  superstition  from  wearing  a  "  dead 
man's  gear "  on  the  same  voyage,  put  the  garments  at  my  disposal. 
In  the  thickest  raiment  we  shivered  at  noonday;  no  man's  chest  con- 
tained sufficient  wardrobe  to  keep  him  warm  during  the  long  night 
watches. 

A  mere  enumeration  of  the  hardships  and  misfortunes  that  befell 
the  Glenalvon  during  that  voyage  would  draw  out  this  yarn  to  un- 
precedented length.  We  slept  in  wooden  bins  with  a  sack  of  chaff  at 
the  bottom,  and  lashed  ourselves  fast  to  keep  from  being  thrown  out 
on  the  deck.  The  condition  of  the  beds  mattered  little,  though,  for 
we  rarely  found  opportunity  to  occupy  them.  The  skipper  worked 
his  crew  like  galley-slaves  because  it  was  his  nature  to  do  so;  the 
bald-headed  mate  kept  the  starboard  watch  on  deck  two-thirds  of  the 
time  because  he  had  a  grudge  against  the  second  mate  that  included 
even  the  men  under  him. 

Every  garment  forward  of  ^\\t  mainmast  was  dripping  wet  or 
frozen  from  one  week's  end  to  the  other.  The  rigging  was  coated 
with  ice  from  bulwarks  to  masthead.  The  sails  were  frozen  as  stiff 
as  sheet  iron  and  reduced  our  fingers  to  mere  bleeding  stumps.  The 
food  in  the  lazaret  fell  so  low  that  we  were  reduced  to  half  rations ; 
which  was  as  well,  perhaps,  for  the  stuff  had  been  on  board  for  more 
than  two  years  and  there  was  not  an  ounce  of  it  that  could  not  be 
smelled  from  the  royal  yard,  as  it  passed  from  galley  to  forecastle. 
The  "  salt  horse  "  was  worm-eaten,  the  pork  putrid ;  the  man  who 
split  open  a  sea  biscuit  and  found  therein  less  than  a  dozen  weevils 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  497 

carried  it  around  to  his  mates  as  a  curiosity.  The.^iscuits  in  one 
cask,  broached  towards  the  end  of  the  voyage,  were  stamped  with  the 
date  1878. 

The  effect  of  this  delectable  diet  was  an  epidemic  of  boils.  As 
many  as  five  men^were  laid  up  at  a  time  from  this  cause,  even  though 
the  skipper  refused  to  enter  on  the  sick-Hst  any  one  with  less  than  a 
dozen.  An-  old  Welchman  in  the  port  watch  displayed  forty-two  at 
one  time.  Having  joined  the  ship  more  recently,  I  escaped  the  at- 
tack, but  with  that  single  exception  not  a  sailor  nor  an  apprentice  was 
spared,  and  even  the  second  mate  appeared  one  morning  with  a  shame- 
faced air  and  a  bandage  peeping  out  from  the  sleeve  of  his  ulster. 

Accidents  were  as  common  as  boils.  But  for  the  fact  that  a  sea- 
man prides  himself  on  indifference  to  minor  injuries,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  left  but  to  heave  to  and  turn  the  craft  into  a  float- 
ing hospital.  The  stoutest  apprentice  was  struck  on  the  head  by  a 
flying  block  and  rendered  senseless  for  days.  A  burly  Swede,  the 
best  seaman  on  board,  clung  too  zealously  to  a  tack  sheet,  which,  yank- 
ing his  hands  through  a  hawser  hole,  broke  his  right  arm.  Looking 
forward  to  an  easy  passage,  the  captain  had  rigged  out  the  ship  in 
her  oldest  suit  of  sails.  One  by  one  the  gale  reduced  them  to  rib- 
bons. The  bursting  of  canvas  sounded  above  the  roar  of  every  storm. 
As  each  sail  went,  new  ones  of  double-weight  canvas  were  dragged 
from  the  locker  and  hoisted  aloft.  It  was  ticklish  work  to  bend  a  sail 
on  the  icy  yards,  with  the  foot-rope  slippery  and  every  line  frozen 
stiff,  while  the  ship  swung  back  and  forth  far  below  like  a  cork  on 
the  end  of  a  stick.  Every  sail  of  the  "  soft-weather  suit "  carried 
away  before  that  unchanging  head  wind  and  even  the  new  canvas 
could  not  always  withstand  its  violence.  Between  Yokohama  and 
Royal  Roads  the  Glenalvon  lost  no  fewer  than  twenty-seven  sails. 

The  most  dismal  day  of  the  voyage  was  the  second  of  September. 
About  seven  bells  of  the  morning  watch,  the  mate,  fearing  a  blow, 
let  go  about  half  the  canvas.  All  of  it  except  the  fore-royal  had 
been  furled  when  I  returned  the  "  scow-pans  "  to  the  galley.  It  was 
then  about  three  minutes  to  eight  bells,  and  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances the  flying  royal  would  have  been  left  for  the  next  watch. 
There  were,  however,  in  the  port  watch,  two  apprentices,  nearly  out 
of  their  time,  who  had  won  the  enmity  of  the  first  mate. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  hanging  back  for  ?  "  he  shouted,  advanc- 
ing upon  them.     "  Lay  aloft  and  furl  that  royal !  " 

The  apprentices  mounted,  muttering  to  themselves.  Eight  bells 
32 


498      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

sounded  before  they  were  half-way  up  the  mast.  Squirming  out  on 
the  yard,  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  above  the  deck,  they  took  in  the 
slack  of  the  sheet.  But  their  anger,  evidently,  had  not  abated,  for 
one,  grasping  a  gasket,  wound  it  once  round  the  sail,  and  yanked  sav- 
agely at  it.  The  rope  carried  away.  With  flying  arms  the  appren- 
tice fell  head  foremost,  struck  on  a  back-stay,  bounded  against  the 
foresail,  and  crashed  on  the  deck  a  few  feet  from  the  forecastle  door. 
His  brains  washed  away  in  the  scuppers. 

One  by  one  the  crew  slunk  into  the  forecastle,  shuddering  or 
grumbling.  Soon,  however,  there  came  a  summons  for  all  hands  to 
lay  aft.  We  hastened  to  execute  the  order.  The  captain,  no  doubt, 
wished  to  express  his  sorrow  at  the  misfortune.  He  stood  at  the 
break  of  the  poop,  puffing  fiercely  at  a  huge,  black  cigar;  and  not  a 
word  did  he  utter  until  every  man  had  assembled. 

Then,  stepping  to  the  rail,  he  raised  a  clenched  fist  and  bellowed : — 
*'  Why  the  bloody  hell  don't  you  damn  fools  be  careful !  Don't  you 
know  we  're  short-handed  already  ?  Lay  aloft,  a  couple  of  hands,  to 
furl  that  royal  —  and  clean  up  that  mess  forward." 

On  the  eighth  of  September  we  crossed  the  meridian  less  than  half 
a  degree  south  of  the  Aleutian  Islands.  During  the  week  ending  that 
noon  we  had  been  routed  out  from  every  watch  below,  we  had  pulled 
and  hauled  and  reefed  and  furled  times  without  number,  and  we  had 
covered  just  sixty  miles! 

But  on  that  day  the  Jonah  weakened,  for  the  wind  turned  north- 
erly, and,  though  the  gale  continued,  the  Glenalvon  caught  the  breeze 
on  her  beam  and  raced  homeward  like  a  steamer.  The  invalids  began 
to  pick  up,  though  the  garbage  doled  out  to  us  was  as  nauseating  as 
ever.  Then  came  an  unlooked-for  catastrophe  to  depress  our  rising 
spirits.  The  tobacco  gave  out!  Those  fortunate  beings  who  had  a 
plug  laid  away  would  not  have  sold  it  for  its  weight  in  gold.  They 
chewed  each  quid  for  half  a  day  and  stuck  it  up  on  the  bulkhead 
above  their  bunks,  smoking  it  when  it  had  dried.  The  Swede  gave 
a  suit  of  clothes,  a  sou'wester,  and  a  half-worn  pair  of  shoes  for  two 
cubic  inches  of  the  weed.  Another  offered  a  month's  wages  for  a 
like  amount  and  was  deterred  from  carrying  out  the  transaction  only 
because  the  skipper  refused  to  note  it  in  the  articles.  The  tobacco- 
less  smoked  the  ground  beans  that  passed  for  coffee  —  or  tea,  accord- 
ing to  the  hour ;  and,  when  the  **  doctor  "  refused  longer  to  supply 
the  stuff,  they  smoked  rope-yarns  and  scraps  of  leather  picked  up  in 
the  rubbish  under  the  forecastle-head. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  499 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  our  labors  were  confined  to  the  mere 
task  of  sailing  the  vessel.  Far  from  it.  The  "  old  man  "  begrudged 
every  sailor  his  watch  below;  he  would  have  died  of  apoplexy  had  he 
caught  one  of  us  loafing  during  his  watch  on  deck.  He  was  a  firm 
believer  in  the  rust-eaten  adage,  ^'  Six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all 
that  thou  art  able ;  and,  on  the  seventh, —  holystone  the  deck  and  scrape 
the  cable."  We  did  both  these  things  and  a  great  many  more.  It 
mattered  not  in  the  least  whether  the  watch  had  been  robbed  of  its 
"  time  below  ''  for  several  consecutive  days,  there  must  be  no  idling 
during  "  ship's  time."  On  this  passage  of  the  Pacific  there  was  not  a 
day  that  the  Glenalvon  carried  the  same  canvas  steadily  for  four 
hours;  yet  we  found  time  during  the  trip  to  paint  the  entire  hold 
from  keel  to  deck,  to  overhaul  every  yard  of  rigging,  to  chip  and  rub 
off  with  sand  and  canvas  all  paint  above  decks  and  daub  on  a  new  coat, 
to  scour  and  oil  every  link  of  the  cable,  to  overhaul  the  capstan,  and  to 
braid  rope-yarns  enough  to  have  supplied  the  British  merchant  marine 
for  a  twelvemonth  to  come.  When  all  else  failed  we  were  sent  down 
in  the  hold  to  sop  up  the  saltpetre  saturated  bilge-water, —  and  lost 
most  of  the  skin  on  our  hands  in  consequence. 

There  was  no  getting  the  upper  hand  of  Captain  Andrews.  One 
memorable  day  when  the  wind  held  good  for  a  few  hours  and  even  the 
second  mate  was  gazing  helplessly  at  several  unoccupied  seamen,  the 
"  old  man  "  gathered  the  watch  together  and  dragged  out  of  the  hold 
the  "  automobarnacles."  It  was  a  contrivance  not  unlike  a  wagon- 
box  fitted  with  great  stiff  brushes,  designed  to  do  the  work  ordinarily 
accomplished  in  dry  dock.  With  a  rope  attached  to  each  end  the  thing 
was  thrown  over  the  side  and  dragged  back  and  forth  under  the  hull, 
each  circuit  leaving  the  crew  blue  in  the  face  and  often  tearing 
asunder  two  barnacles  as  huge  as  snail  shells. 

On  the  nineteenth  day  of  September  the  rumor  drifted  forward 
.  that  we  were  nearing  port.  There  was  no  confirming  it.  The  dig- 
nity of  the  quarter-deck  requires  that  the  skipper  shall  permit  infor- 
mation of  this  sort  to  leak  out  only  in  such  a  way  that  it  cannot  be 
traced  to  him.  The  pessimists  in  the  forecastle  swore  that  the  voyage 
was  not  half  over,  the  conservatives  vowed  that  we  were  still  several 
days'  run  from  the  coast ;  but  for  all  that,  an  unwonted  excitement  pre- 
vailed on  board. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  watch  all  disputes  were  settled  by 
an  order  to  get  the  anchor  over  the  side.  It  needed  no  cursing  to 
arouse  every  man  to  his  best  efforts.     The  watch  below  forgot  their 


500      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

sleepiness  and  turned  out  to  scramble  into  the  rigging,  laughing 
childishly.  In  record  time  the  anchor  swung  from  the  cathead  and 
we  waited  impatiently  for  signs  of  land. 

But  the  fog  horn  had  been  croaking  at  regular  intervals  for  days. 
The  best  pair  of  eyes  could  not  have  made  out  a  mountain  a  ship's 
length  away.  Moreover,  the  skipper  was  none  too  sure  of  his  where- 
abouts; his  reckonings,  like  those  of  many  a  "windjammer's"  cap- 
tain, were  fully  as  much  dependent  on  guesswork  as  mathematics. 
At  four  bells,  therefore,  we  wore  ship  and  ran  due  north.  At  mid- 
night we  went  about  again,  and  for  two  days  we  beat  up  and  down  the 
coast,  while  the  crew  nibbled  worm-eaten  biscuits  in  helpless  rage. 

On  the  twenty-first  the  gale  died  down  to  a  moderate  breeze  and 
we  hove  to  as  near  the  entrance  to  Puget  Sound  as  the  skipper's  reck- 
oning permitted.  In  the  early  afternoon  the  fog  thinned  and  lifted, 
and  a  mighty  cheer  from  the  watch  on  duty  brought  every  other  man 
tumbling  out  of  his  bunk.  A  few  miles  off  to  starboard  a  rocky  prom- 
ontory rose  slowly,  throwing  off  the  gray  mist  like  a  giant  freeing 
himself  of  a  cumbersome  garment.  A  tug  hovering  under  the  lee 
shore  spied  the  flapping  canvas  of  the  Glenalvon  and  darted  out  to 
meet   us. 

As  the  tow-line  slipped  over  the  bollards,  the  first  bit  of  news  from 
the  outer  world  passed  between  our  skipper  and  the  tug  captain. 

"  Is  the  in  yet  ?  "  bellowed  the  former,  naming  the  bark  that 

had  passed  us  in  Tokyo  Bay. 

"  Aye,"  came  back  the  answer,  "  three  weeks  ago  — " 

A  sizzling  oath  mounted  to  the  lips  of  the  "  old  man." 

"  You  're  down  for  lost,  captain,"  continued  the  newcomer.  "  She 
reported  you  aground  on  Saratoga  Spit." 

"  Aground  hell !  "  roared  our  beloved  commander,  "  Though  we  've 
struck  everything  but  ground,  and  no  bloody  mistake." 

All  night  long  the  tug  strained  at  the  hawser,  while  the  second  mate, 
dreading  the  loss  of  his  reputation  as  a  "  hazer,"  called  upon  us  to 
trim  the  bare  yards  each  time  the  light  breeze  shifted  a  point.  In 
the  afternoon  we  dfopped  anchor  in  a  quiet  cove  close  off  a  wooded 
shore  decorated  by  several  wigwams,  and  the  "  old  man,"  being  rowed 
ashore,  returned  at  dusk  with  a  side  of  fresh  beef  and  a  box  of  plug 
^  tobacco. 

The  next  morning  I  turned  to  with  the  crew  as  usual  and  toiled 
from  daylight  to  dar^.  No  hint  of  relief  having  reached  me  by  the 
next  afternoon,  I  ni^rched  aft  and  asked  for  my  release. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  501 

"  What 's  your  hurry  ?  "  demanded  the  skipper.  "  I  '11  sign  you  on 
at  full  wages  and  you  can  make  the  trip  home  in  her." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  I  answered,  *'  but  I  'm  home  now,  once  I 
get  ashore." 

"  Aye ! "  snorted  the  captain,  "  And  in  three  days  you  '11  be  on  the 
beach  and  howling  to  sign  on  again.  I  can't  sign  you  off  here,  any- 
way, without  paying  port  dues.  Turn  to  with  the  crew  until  she  's 
dumped  her  ballast  and  tied  up  in  Tacoma,  and  I  '11  give  you  your 
l)oard-of-trade  discharge." 

I  protested  against  such  a  delay  as  forcibly  as  the  circumstances 
permitted. 

"  Huh !  That 's  it !  "  growled  the  master.  "  Every  man  jack  of  you 
with  the  price  of  a  drink  coming  to  him  puts  his  helm  hard  down  if 
a  shift  of  work  turns  up.  Well,  to-morrow  's  Sunday.  I  '11  get  some 
money  of  the  agents  when  I  go  ashore  and  pay  you  off  on  Monday 
morning.     But  I  '11  have  to  set  you  down  on  the  log  as  a  deserter." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  I  answered. 

Fifty-seven  days  after  boarding  the  Glenalvon  I  bade  farewell  to 
her  crew.  Dressed  in  khaki  uniform  and  an  ancient  pair  of  sea  boots 
that  had  cost  me  four  messes  of  plum  duff,  I  landed  with  the  captain 
at  a  rocky  point  on  the  further  side  of  the  cove.  He  marched  before 
me  until  we  had  reached  the  door  of  an  isolated  saloon,  then  turned 
and  dropped  into  my  hand  seven  and  a  half  dollars. 

"  I  Ve  brought  you  here,"  he  said,  "  to  save  you  from  losing  your 
wages  to  those  sharks  down  there  in  Squiremouth.  You  must  be 
back  on  board  by  to-morrow  night." 

"Eh!"  I  gasped. 

"  Oh,  I  have  to  tell  you  that,"  snapped  the  skipper,  "  or  I  can't 
set  you  down  as  a  deserter,"  and,  pushing  aside  the  swinging  doors 
before  him,  he  disappeared. 

I  plodded  on  towards  the  city  of  Victoria.  The  joy  of  being  on 
land  once  more,  above  all  of  being  my  own  master,  was  so  acute  that 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  refrained  from  cutting  a  caper  in  the 
public  highway.  For  once  I  realized  the  full  strength  of  that  in- 
stinct which  drives  the  seaman  on  the  day  he  is  paid  off  from  a  long 
voyage  to  plunge  headlong  into  the  wildest  excesses  of  dissipation. 

In  reality  I  was  still  in  a  foreign  land;  yet  how  every  detail 
about  me  suggested  the  fatherland  from  which  I  had  so  long  been 
absent.  The  wooden  sidewalk  drumming  under  my  boots;  the  cozy 
houses,  roofed  with  shingles  instead  of  tiles,  and  each  standing  with 


502      A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD 

retiring  modesty  in  its  own  green  lawn ;  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells  in  neigh- 
boring pastures  —  a  hundred  unimportances,  that  passed  unheeded 
when  I  dwelt  among  them,  stood  forth  to  call  up  reminiscences  of 
my  prewandering  existence.  In  Victoria  every  passer-by  seemed  a 
long-lost  friend,  so  familiar  did  each  look  in  feature,  garb,  and  ac- 
tions. All  that  day,  as  often  as  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me,  I  whirled 
about  and  stared  at  the  speaker,  utterly  astonished  that  he  should  be 
speaking  English. 

I  caught  the  night  boat  for  Seattle  and  landed  at  midnight  in  my 
native  land  after  an  absence  of  four  hundred  and  sixty-six  days. 
For  two  days  following  I  did  little  but  sleep,  then  set  out  one  evening 
to  "  beat  my  way "  eastward,  landing  in  Spokane  the  second  night 
thereafter.  My  wages  as  a  seaman  being  nearly  exhausted,  I  put 
up  at  the  "  Ondawa  Workingman's  Inn,"  purchased  a  job  at  an  em- 
ployment agency,  and  spent  a  week  *'  bucking  the  concrete  board  " 
for  J.  Kennedy,  a  bustling  Irish  contractor  to  whom  Spokane  is  in- 
debted for  most  of  her  sidewalks.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  turned 
over  another  dollar  to  the  employment  agency  and  shipped  as  a  rail- 
way laborer  to  Paola,  Montana.  The  train  halted  at  midnight  at  the 
station  named,  an  isolated  shanty  in  a  wild  mountain  gorge ;  but,  hav-. 
ing  no  desire  to  tramp  ten  miles  across  the  parched  foothills  to  the 
camp  of  the  contractor,  I  went  on,  like  several  of  the  *'  agency  gang," 
by  the  same  train  —  this  time  crouched  on  the  steps  of  a  Pullman  car. 
My  companions  dropped  off  one  by  one  as  the  night  air  set  their  teeth 
chattering,  but  I  clung  to  my  place  until  daylight  came  and  the  con- 
ductor, raising  the  vestibule  floor  ^bove  my  head,  invited  me  to  *'  hit 
the  grit." 

A  four-mile  walk  brought  me  to  Havre.  From  one  of  its  restau- 
rants I  had  barely  emerged  when  a  ranchman  accosted  me.  When 
night  fell  I  was  speeding  eastward  in  charge  of  seven  car-loads  of 
cattle.  Six  days  later  I  turned  the  animals  over  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  a  packing-house  in  Chicago,  and,  on  the  morning  of  October  four- 
teenth, entered  the  portals  of  my  paternal  home. 


THE  END 


<a/x 


UIJXVV 


<0^m9mmi 


AN  INITIAL  PINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  INCRErSE  TO  SO  C^l^"^-  """^  ''^NALTY 
DAY  AND  TO  $i  OO  o^f  ru.^"  """^  '^^^''-T" 
OVERDUE.  ^  ^"^  SEVENTH  DAY 


LD21-l00m-7,'40  (69368) 


/3» 


UN 


IVERSITY  OF  CAWFORNIA  IvIBRARY 


t*.^;^ 


•/•^^.        >.-■• 


